


Bedtime Stories

by dustofwarfare, ohmyfae



Series: Imperative [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Collars, D/s AU, Domestic Shenanigans, F/F, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Kidfic, M/M, Multi, Polaymory, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Raising kids, Sub!Dimitri, biological imperative kink, dad!fic, dom!claude, dom!hilda, joyful consent, polycule, royal kids times two, sub!felix, sub!marianne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 76,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24117196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: A collection of stories featuring the royal families of Almyra and Fodlan, and what the new world looks like after peace. Featuring: a lot of cute kids born to two royal families, parenting adventures, grandparents telling tales, a lot of world building, feelings and a whole lotta love and affection because they deserve it.
Relationships: Claude von Riegan's Father/Tiana von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan, Felix Hugo Fraldarius's Mother/Tiana von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Series: Imperative [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654516
Comments: 84
Kudos: 142
Collections: DS-Verse FE3H Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows the epilogue of International Relations in the Imperative 'verse, Azure Moon route timeline, as written by Dustofwarfare and Ohmyfae!)
> 
> A key, because everyone is basically sharing parenting duties: 
> 
> Dad: Claude  
> Mom: Hilda  
> Daddy: Dimitri  
> Papa: Felix  
> Mama: Marianne 
> 
> Tiana von Riegan: Claude's mom  
> Malik (Conquerer of the Starry Skies): Claude's father  
> Salma: Tiana and Malik's submissive, a doctor 
> 
> (If you want to know how we got to this point, you might want to read the lead-in fics for [Trade Agreement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453305) and [International Relations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565619).) 
> 
> This is a d/s-au, meaning that everyone is born either a sub or a dom. Please be advised if you have any triggers about consent that while nothing is intended to be non-con or dub-con, this is predicated on the idea that it's biological imperative kink. 
> 
> CW: Pregnancy (very mild), childbirth (also very mild)

The crown princess of Almyra is born on a warm summer morning, just as the bells of the capital city start to ring through the wide, open windows of the palace. It’s a quiet morning, as though the world itself is holding still in breathless anticipation, and beyond the bells, the only sound in the long, winding halls and twisting stairs are the hurried patter of feet as servants race back and forth from the birthing room. The room itself is draped with light curtains in the colors of the Almyran royal family, and a faint breeze winds through them, stirring the cloth. Queen Hilda, who has been cursing darkly for the past fifteen hours, reaches out a lovely, manicured hand and clenches it in the long blond hair of the king of Faerghus.

“Kill my husband,” she says.

King Dimitri, who has also been up for the past fifteen hours, gives Hilda a baleful look. On her other side, Marianne wipes sweat from Hilda’s face with a damp cloth and sighs. 

“You don’t actually want that,” he says. Hilda’s eyes flash dangerously, which is frankly unfair, and Dimitri glances down. “He’s just. Ah.”

“Are you _sure_ this is normal?” Claude—King Khalid—asks one of the doctors. He’s speaking in Almyran, and while Dimitri is still struggling to master some of the trickier turns of speech, he understands enough of the doctor’s response to know that Hilda’s labor is perfectly normal, not even long by most standards, and could his majesty please remember to breathe?

Claude takes a ragged gasp of air. On the bench near the door, where he’s been half asleep for the past hour, Felix jerks awake.

“He’s gotten worse,” he mumbles, and his eyelids threaten to flutter shut again before Hilda clenches her hand in Dimitri’s hair. Dimitri clears his throat, and Felix startles awake again.

“If I’m not sleeping, none of you are,” Hilda orders. Felix, too tired to gather the strength to object, slides off the bench and to his knees. Dimitri can’t blame him—Hilda’s been more demanding than usual in the past few weeks, and Dimitri has been slipping under for most of it, lost in a pleasant cycle of endless service. A sharp command is harder to ignore, now, even for Felix, and Claude turns to find them both kneeling, glances at Hilda with a look of pure panic, and hurries over.

“Tell him I’m fine,” Hilda orders.

“She’s fine,” Dimitri says, with a wry smile. Hilda’s grip loosens in his hair, stroking behind his ear almost idly. Then another contraction must hit, because Dimitri winces as she grabs another fistful and groans.

“Darling,” Claude says. “Light of my life. Raindrop of my—“

“ _Khalid._ ”

“Felix would appreciate it better,” Claude says, casting Dimitri a look full of the abject fear of impending fatherhood.

“But _Dimitri_ tells me I’m _pretty_ while I’m _doing_ it,” Hilda grits out. Still on the floor behind Claude, Felix shrugs like, _fair enough._ Marianne smiles and brushes back Hilda’s hair.

“I’ve helped with plenty of births, your majesty,” she says. “Hilda’s doing well, and she’s in good hands.”

“Baby, I love you,” Hilda says. “But I’m not a _horse._ ”

“I’ve helped with wyverns, as well,” Marianne says, almost hurt, and Dimitri hides a smile. He adjusts the sleeve of his robe, which Claude had tailored for him a year after he was collared—there’s a faint hint of Faerghus blue in the blossoms along the hem, but the robe itself is in the Almyran style, one meant for the submissives of the royal family. Marianne and Felix have their own; While Dimitri is technically king of Fódlan and Felix his consort, they’re here as family, and sometimes, he supposes, family means letting Hilda pull his hair every time she wants to kick Claude for pacing the room like a prowling lion.

“You should go outside, Khalid,” Hilda says. “Say hi to your parents for me. I’ll scream you in when it’s time.”

Claude’s eyes widen.

“It’s a joke,” Felix says. He’s on his feet, swinging a dark braid over his shoulder. “You won’t miss anything. Come on.” He holds out a hand, and Claude, usually so commanding and self-assured that he can bring Dimitri to his knees with a look, goes stumbling after him.

“He thinks he’s a mess,” Hilda says, when the door shuts behind him. “Imagine how I feel.” She cries out suddenly, grabbing Dimitri by the shoulder with nails that bite through the robe, and Claude swings open the door. “Get. Back. Out. There.”

A heavily scarred arm appears from behind the door to slam it shut, and Dimitri hears the familiar boom of Claude’s father’s voice through the wall.

“Thank the goddess,” Hilda says. She yanks Dimitri close as one of the doctors approaches her bed. “I’m never doing this again.”

“I thought you wanted five,” Marianne says.

Hilda moans faintly. “They’ll look so _cute._ Fine. But I’m lodging a _complaint_ with the _universe._ ”

“Duly noted,” Dimitri says, and he sits up on his knees to kiss Hilda’s damp brow. “And I’m sure they’ll be beautiful.”

“Of course they will be,” Hilda says, sweating and splayed out with her feet lifted on thin metal stirrups and her hair stuck to her face. “Just _look_ at me.”

***  
“I just don’t -- there’s so much -- yelling,” Claude says, for the thousandth time. “And usually when she yells that much, there’s an axe involved and someone _else_ is in pain, not _her_.” He rakes both of his hands through his hair. “I did this to her, and I can’t -- do anything about it, so --” 

“You know this is how it works, right?” Felix asks, from where he’s leaning against the railing, impertinent as ever. 

“Do you?” Claude asks, a little huffy. “How would you feel if it were Dimitri in there shouting?” 

“Jealous,” says Felix, with a quirk to his mouth. 

“Hmph.” Claude smiles despite himself. “Funny. You’re funny.” 

“Son,” Malik says. “If you are worried about your wife, which you need not be as she is a mighty warrior and can handle birthing your child, then go take it out on the pretty one, there, standing in your presence and begging to be put on his knees.” 

Claude looks at Felix. “My dad says I should put you on your knees if I’m worried about Hilda, which I should not be, because she’s a badass.” 

“She is,” Felix agrees. “And he’s not wrong. I’m here for a reason. Come on.” Felix tilts his head up. “Put me on my knees, you know you want to.” 

It works - at first. Claude walks over and grabs Felix by the braid, pulling his hair back, thinking about slapping him and distracted enough...until he hears a loudly shouted, “ _Goddamn it, Claude! Khalid! Whatever the fuck your name is -- Dimitri, you need more hair --_ ” from the other room. 

Malik laughs. “You picked a good wife, eh,” he says, in Fódlan, apparently so that he can embarrass Claude in front of Felix, too. “Your mother, she cursed me,too, when you came along. Very loud.” He claps a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “Should have married the other one, if you wanted quiet, eh, Fox-Cub?” 

Felix smirks. “Yes, my lord.” 

Malik smacks him on the back and switches to Almyran. “Your mother screamed with you for many hours. Your mom, she screamed with your brothers. Warriors shout in battle, Khalid. To give birth is a battle. All is as it should be.” 

Claude knows his father is trying to help. And he’s absolutely sure his mother yelled just as loudly as Hilda, although it’s hard to imagine his mom, Salma - his parents’ submissive, and one of the doctors in with his wife -- yelling, given she was a battlefield doctor who’d seen just about everything. 

“Did he say -- your mother and your mom?” Felix asks, frowning. He’s been trying to learn Almyran, which Claude finds unbearably sweet; or would, if he couldn’t hear his beloved queen hollering how exactly she was going to murder him. 

“Yeah. Salma, my parents’ submissive -- she’s one of the doctors in there.” Claude reaches out and starts tugging Felix’s hair. It sort of helps to settle him, though Hilda’s pained shouts are winding him up so tight, he’s not sure anything is going to help at this point. “Kneel for me, sweet thing.” 

Felix kneels, and he looks a little relieved; Malik does have that effect on submissives, even fighty ones like his Felix, just from his mere presence alone. “You call her mom?” Felix says, blinking up at him. “Your parents’ submissive, I mean.” 

“That or Ma, sometimes. She’s family...you do know that the baby my wife is currently giving birth to is gonna call you some form of _daddy_ , yeah?” Claude, who forgets sometimes how weird submissives are in Fódlan, has not even thought about the possibility that Felix wouldn’t know that. 

Which must be right, because Felix just _stares_ at him. “What.” 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” Claude asks, voice going a little dangerous as he pulls Felix’s hair, hard. 

“Yeah,” Felix says, tilting his head up. The silver chain hanging from his collar is perfectly visible beneath the _V_ of his robe. “Yeah. But -- the baby -- that’s not. I’m not. I didn’t --” 

Malik, never one to ignore something when he could get involved (probably where Claude gets it from, though he will admit that to no one, ever), strolls over. “What is the pretty one saying?” His father knows the Fódlan tongue, but Felix’s stammering is probably not helping him translate. 

“He didn’t realize my children would call him a familial name,” says Claude. “Like I call Salma _Ma_ , or her kids call Mother _Mama_.” 

His father squints at him. “Why would he not know this, Khalid.” 

“They don’t think of kids the same way, in Faerghus,” Claude says, simply. He grins down at Felix. “The look of pure terror on your face is the first thing that’s made me feel better about this. Little different when you know the kid’s gonna be yours, too, huh.” 

“We don’t...it’s not like that,” says Felix, his voice shaky. “In the - the nobility, subs don’t have any rights over noble children. If they didn’t, um. Help...make them.” 

“What?” Malik glances between them. “He says wrong things. Your child is his family, does he think to escape this honor, this duty? Punish him, son.” 

“Dad, honestly,” Claude mutters. “He’s not trying to do that, that isn’t what he’s saying at all. I’m fine, anyway, isn’t there something else you could be doing?” 

“No,” says Malik, with glee. He turns to Felix and says in his heavily-accented Fódlan, “The children of my Khalid and his queen, they are yours to protect, Fox-Cub. My lady wife trusts you with blades. You will protect children born to your family, here, yes? With your sword. You are Almyran now. Khalid’s children, also are to be your children. If you say no, I will take your useless blade. Kill you with my hands.” 

Felix has worn Claude’s collar for two years. Claude knows Felix, he knows how he reacts to things and he half expects his fighty, gorgeous submissive to stand up and challenge his father for daring to suggest he would fail to do anything involving a sword. 

Felix, though. Felix does something Claude’s seen him do so rarely that he thinks he can count it on one hand -- he bows from his kneeling position, presses his forehead to the ground in a pose of complete and utter submission and says, in Almyran, “I will protect them. I swear it on my life.” 

Claude blinks, and looks over at his father. His father beams, then reaches out and pats Felix on the head. “Good, Fox-Cub. Good.” He takes his hand away and switches to Almyran. “Does your Lion-Cub know this, Khalid? That your children are also his? You should have told them. My daughter, her bird-singer knows how it will be, yes?” 

“She does,” Claude says, remembering fondly all the little gifts the staff have quietly been delivering to Marianne during Hilda’s pregnancy. Marianne had been almost as excited as Claude, when Hilda informed them she was pregnant. “I think Dimitri understands. I’ll make sure of it, Dad.” 

“See that you do.” Malik nods at Felix. “Why do they do nothing right, there? I still think you should keep them here, where things make sense.” 

“We’ve been over this,” Claude says, petting Felix’s hair, pretending he can’t see Felix’s shoulders shaking and hear his ragged breathing. Impending fatherhood with no warning would rattle anyone. Claude’s had months to get used to the idea and he still isn’t sure he knows what to expect. “I can’t keep the King of Fódlan here, or his consort.” 

“Hmph,” says Malik. “I brought my Fódlaner here and kept her.” 

“Mother wasn’t the queen, though,” Claude points out. 

Malik gives him a deeply pitying look. “Try telling _her_ that, son. She knew she was a queen long before I made her one.” 

That is something that Claude has thought about Hilda, more than once. Which, well, apparently he really is his father’s son. 

From inside the room, he hears a loud, shrieking cry -- followed by every version of his name in two languages and a string of curses and threats that make Claude’s face go white, Felix blush, and Malik throw his head back and laugh. 

And then there’s the sound of a wail that’s even louder than Hilda’s -- and the door opens to reveal Dimitri, wincing a bit with a hand on his head and his hair an unholy mess, a wide blue eye and a smile on his face. “Ah.” 

And from behind him peeks the face of Salma, who fixes him with a soft tired smile and says, “Khalid, dear one. Come and meet your daughter.” 

***

There is a stage in a wyvern’s life-cycle, somewhere between the wide-eyed fumbling of infancy and the long, loping strides of adolescence, when a wyvern looks almost like they’ve been caught in a thunderstorm. Their scales molt, ruffling in haphazard patches down their necks, their legs are too skinny for their claws, and if you stamp loud enough, they all jump like startled chickens and rattle their tails.

For an instant, when Khalid learns that his first child has been born, he looks very much like a wyvern.

Malik supposes it can’t be helped. Khalid always has been excitable. He gestures to the pretty one, the fox-cub, who almost crawls before Khalid loses his patience and drags him up by the collar. They’re both trembling.

Salma turns one of her rare smiles his way, and Malik nods. Give the young ones a moment. Khalid’s birth was a busy thing, too many people crowded in the hall beyond, gawking at his beautiful, terrifying wife with her grass-green eyes and wicked smile. Khalid will have silence, this time. Malik has seen to that.

He turns on a heel as bells jingle down the hall, and there’s Tiana herself, Wielder of the Demon Blade, with her hair windswept and her gown pulled snug around her curves. She slows when she sees him, and her eyes go wide.

“Hilda?” she asks. 

“It’s done.” Malik takes her hand and reels her in, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “I’m giving them time. Did you know, my love, that Fódlaners don’t allow their submissives to have children?”

“That’s not quite it, Malik,” Tiana says. Her eyes narrow in a silent smile as he kisses her fingertips. “It’s the nobility, I believe, and they don’t give parental rights to them, not children. Only Faerghus does it. It’s a terrible system—Outdated—Malik, love,” she adds, as Malik presses his lips to the inside of her wrist. “Is this the time?”

“It’s always the time,” Malik says, because it is. “I should have conquered Fódlan when I had the chance.”

“Yes, so you keep telling me. But enough of that.” Her eyes are cold and clear as she pulls her hand free. “How is my grandchild?”

“Healthy,” Salma says, from the door. She slips through—She’s taken off her doctor’s robes and gloves, and she unpins her thick, dark hair. There are hints of grey in it, now, slivers of silver twisted in her heavy curls, and her angular frame has been softened somewhat with time, but she still laughs when Tiana takes her in both arms. Tiana kisses her cheeks the way they do in her homeland, which always disarms Salma, and Malik draws her in to kiss her properly. She smiles into it, and when his grip around her waist loosens, Salma gracefully sinks to the floor. Not on her knees, of course—she isn’t as young as she was—but she sits with her back pressed to Malik’s legs, her knees folded elegantly to the side.

“A very loud seven pound girl,” she says. Malik holds her head to his thigh. “She didn’t take long to latch. Hilda’s exhausted, poor girl, and little Khalid’s world just shifted.” She sighs. “They always do.”

“Oh, my heart,” Tiana says. She stoops to kiss Salma, one hand on Malik’s stomach for balance, and Malik figures that if Salma were a cat, she’d be purring. “You deserve a rest. I’ll get out the softest cuffs we have, the ones you like the most.”

“And I’ll fuck you quiet,” Malik says, kneading his fingers through her hair. “But first, I must see my son’s heir. You’ll take care of her,” he adds, and Tiana raises a brow.

“Will I?” 

“Yes, please,” Salma murmurs, and Malik laughs softly. So polite, always, even when she’s bone tired and swaying without his legs to hold her upright. Tiana grabs her by the hair, fondly, and Salma’s lips curve at the corners.

Malik can’t help but laugh again when Tiana drags Salma to her feet by the hair—of course she would—and he opens the door just as Tiana backs her into the wall, murmuring her own thanks for Salma’s good work.

The lion-cub hasn’t fixed his hair, the fox-cub is still shaking slightly, and Khalid is looking down at Hilda with the sort of reverence Malik saves for his lady, which is good. The bird-singer is crying—Malik pats her cheek, and she smiles weakly—and Hilda still looks almost angry, but with an alarmed, uncertain joy creeping up around the edges. The baby in her arms has Khalid’s light brown skin, with pink hair and small, shaking fists, and when Malik gestures, Hilda carefully hands her over.

“Please be careful,” Khalid says, as though Malik has never held a child before. Hm.

“You think I do not know how to hold children?” Malik asks, in Fódlan. He barely notices the way the submissives in the room straighten at the tone of his voice. “You think I drop her, eh, Khalid? You think I drop you?”

“You did, technically,” Tiana says, entering with a slightly dazed Salma. “Do you remember when he was three? His birthday party by the aquifer?”

“No,” Malik says, even though he does. Tiana had caught Khalid, anyways, and no one was harmed, so there’s no reason to mention it. Ever. “Who is this I am holding, son?”

“Oh. Father.” Khalid brushes at his cheeks, perhaps remembering that he is supposed to be king of Almyra, and gestures to his child. “Meet Crown Princess Laila of Almyra. Daughter of Khalid. Son of Malik.”

The infant squirms in Malik’s arms, small and red-faced and furious at this strange world she will one day inherit.

“I will take her outside,” he says. “Show her to Almyra.” He cuts a sharp look to his son when Khalid tries to rise, and doesn’t bother modulating the tone of his voice, command thundering through the room. “ _And you will attend to your wife._ ”

Salma goes to her knees. So does the blond, not so prettily as _his_ submissive, of course, while the fox-cub goes vague and his daughter’s sweet creature presses a hand to her chest. Hilda beams. 

Malik adjusts his granddaughter in his arms and walks her through the door, out into the open-air platform beyond the hall. The city stretches out before them, glowing with the light of the rising sun, and Malik bares his teeth to it.

“This will be your birthright,” he tells the child. “From the last house on the sea, where they said serpents took human form in the old days, before we learned about evolution, all the way to these mountains. Beyond these mountains. You will have Fódlan, too, if you want it. It will need you. You come from a line of warrior queens, philosopher kings, rulers who could gut a dragon and bring the world to its knees in one morning.”

His gaze travels to the ridge that hides Fódlan’s Locket, where a young woman with a bow in her hand and fire in her eyes strode through the sand on her own, following a distant line of Almyran troops. 

“And there is your other side,” he says. He looks down at Laila, who stirs fitfully in his arms, and spares her a soft, hidden smile.

“Well, little one,” he says. “Would you like to hear a story?”

***

Malik, Storm-Rider and Wielder of the Sun’s Arrow, isn’t yet old enough to fly a wyvern untethered when he first meets the woman who will one day become his queen. 

He is with his father, King Amir, Cloud-Burner, Lord of the Blood-Red Tides, Slayer of the Underhanded, to participate in the annual games between the people of Almyra and those brave Fódlan soldiers who would dare raise arms against their neighbors, superior in might in every way, for sport and the glory of combat that does not end in blood. 

“See, my son, how these Landbound cowards look at us as if we are things to be slain by poisons and subterfuge,” Amir says to him, as they watch the Fódlan participants stare warily at the Almyran contingent. “They will draw arrows and their blades in friendly competition, but if they were to try and slay us, they would do so with their tinctures in our food and our drink. Do not trust them.” 

Malik knows about Fódlan. His father has fought their warriors, has defeated their naval ships, has cut through their spies and driven them back from their borders. He has never seen them like this, though; relaxed and laughing, speaking their strange language and staring at Malik and his father like they are mythical creatures risen up from the mists. 

Fódlan people are odd creatures, with their bizarre multi-hued coloring and pale skin, like flowers that would wilt in seconds under the heat of an Almyran summer sun. The most fearsome of their blade-wielders are the Faerghans, from a land of snow and cold, a place full of barbarians that were so weak, they put _collars_ around the necks of their honored submissives. No true dominant would need such a thing, not in Almyra. 

Malik is quiet and watchful for most of the games; the Fódlan participants seem not to know or care who he is, and Malik finds himself with the newfound freedom to wander among the camps of soldiers, given barely a glance as if he is not the son of the king. 

The girl is alone on the practice fields, late at night, with nothing but a few torches and a full moon to give her light. She has hair like the red-clay mud in the rivers of North Almyra, up near the pine forests where it grows cold enough to see your breath and sometimes ice falls from the sky, sliding slick over the branches over trees. She wears a hood and is small, smaller than Malik’s youngest sister, and she has a hood tossed back as she sights her bow. 

“You aim too high,” he says. She is one of the only girls he has seen here; his father says it is yet another sign that Fódlan is weak, that they do not always allow their women to take up bows and swords and fight with the passion in their blood. 

The girl lets the arrow go before she turns to him, and he laughs outright; she is smaller than his younger sister, perhaps only ten summers if not less, but the tilt of her chin and the tone in her sharp voice mark her easily as a dominant; when he moves closer, he sees her eyes are the color of the mossy rocks in cool caves, or the pine needles harvested for the tea even Fódlaners like. 

Malik has always thought the Fódlan language harsh like the ice that clings to the pine branches, bitter like the tea they make from it. But this girl’s language is musical, like a song, and he likes that she has dirt smudged on her face, that she does not run from him when he appears like a wraith out of the shadow. 

“You’re not very good at that,” he says, in Almyran. 

She says something back, hand on her hip, sharp and too fast. Later, years later, she will laugh and press her face to his neck and say, _I said you were a perfect ass, to sneak up and scare me when I was trying to practice._

Malik holds his hand out for her bow. She kicks him in the shin and darts off, into the forest. He gives chase but she vanishes somewhere between the archery practice area and the camps; he lets her go because this is a sacred tournament of skills, not a time to declare war over an unwanted incursion. 

The next day he shoots his arrows beside his father, and he looks for her; but of all those present, he sees no small girl with red-clay hair and pine-green eyes. He wins acclaim and his father is proud, but he is distracted, looking for her. 

“Do the Fódlan people not let their daughters take up arms?” he asks, later that night, around the fire. 

“It is said they keep them under lock and key, do you know, I have heard --” his cousin Nader leans in, voice low, conspiratorial -- “that they think a woman a submissive, just by virtue of being born a girl?” 

Malik’s eyes go wide. This is blasphemy; his mother is a dominant as she is a queen, and so is Nader’s, and so is Malik’s young aunt, who ran away to the wilds of Kupala and sends them spices and odd letters and strange weapons for their birthdays. “That cannot be, for I’ve heard they have queens, here.” 

Nader shrugs. “Who knows? One day we will meet them in battle in truth, not these games, and we will take their wild land of snows and too much ground and make them understand they are barbarians. Until then, I suppose they’ll keep their women inside their stone castles and their submissives with their necks in leather collars like beasts. Who knows why they do anything? My mother says they haven’t yet charted some stars, can you imagine?” 

Malik scoffs, thinking his cousin is telling him tales. Who hasn’t yet learned the paths of the stars in the night? But he has heard that the farther you go in the wilds of Fódlan, the skies are choked with clouds at night; only Almyrans are given the true wonders of the night sky, as they have the clarity of mind to appreciate it. Or so his father says, and his father is a king who surely must know. 

The next day he sees her again, but not because she takes part in the games. It is because, while the Almyrans prove their superiority with the bow in front of all those assembled, she falls gracelessly from the branches of a tree as Malik readies his shot. His instincts are quick and honed to perfection; at the last moment he ticks the bow up, his arrow flying into the sky instead of at the target. 

It spares her life, and perhaps stops a war, but at the moment all he cares about is that it made him lose. 

“Why were you hiding in the trees?” he demands of her, as she sits on the ground and stares up at him. In the light of day, her eyes shine like emeralds. “Now I have missed my shot!” Malik is the crown prince of Almyra. He did not come here to lose because a Fódlan girl with grassy eyes and sun-shot hair fell out of a tree. 

The girl puts her hands on her hips and yells; Malik yells back, even though they do not know what the other is saying. She is like a baby wyvern in a snit, all big eyes and screeching incomprehensibly at him, tossing her hair as if there horns in it somewhere. A child with the nerve to confront a king, but at least she does not cower before him like so many others of her kind. 

He looks; there is no collar around her neck. 

Malik storms up to her, arms crossed. He would know the name of this imp, this tiresome creature who falls out of the sky without the grace to bring the wisdom of mathematics as women do, in the legends of his homeland. “Malik,” he says, pointing to himself. He points at her, waiting. 

The girl seems immune to his temper and his dominance. She mimics his pose, and then she points to herself and says, “Tiana,” and sticks her tongue out at him. 

Mere seconds later, two men appear, wearing livery marked by a crescent moon. They grab the girl’s arms and haul her, kicking and shouting, away from the field of competition. 

He does not see her again. He looks for her as they fly back to Almyra, for her red hair and green eyes, the brightest flower of all, the only one he remembers. 

***

“My love.”

Malik stands at the rail at the edge of the platform overlooking the city, holding his grandchild in one arm. She squints up at him, lulled into silence by the rumble of his voice, and wriggles against the blanket wrapped tight around her. It makes Tiana, who has been watching them from the entrance for a while now, think of the first time Malik held Khalid. For a second, before the crowd outside started to jostle and shout for their heir, Malik had been broken apart, as though he truly had never held a baby before, never understood the wonder of it. She caught him looking like that out of the corner of her eye, later, when he thought he wasn’t being watched, beaming down at his son with an unguarded smile.

Now, he whispers something to his granddaughter and glances up at Tiana, who holds out her hands.

“Her parents will think you’ve run off with her,” she says. His smile goes wolfish.

“I have.” He eases little Laila into Tiana’s arms.

“She’s so soft,” Tiana whispers, touching Laila’s cheek. “You never do get used to how soft babies are.” Malik’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he kisses Tiana’s temple. “What were you telling her?”

“Her heritage,” Malik says, as they start towards the open hallway. “The glorious history she’s been born into. The strength of her line.”

“Really? Have you wrestled a dragon bare-handed yet, or did I interrupt?” Tiana raises a brow, and Malik raises his back. She lifts her grandchild to her cheek and whispers, just loud enough for Malik to hear. “Oh, Laila. Don’t let my husband tell you lies.”

***

“Would that my daughter had been born a submissive!”

Tiana von Riegan stands in the foyer of the Riegan estate, holding one hand to her stinging cheek while her father snarls and huffs above her. Her bow lies broken on the expensive rug, snapped in jagged pieces, and her father paces over the shards like one of the irate goats in the pen out back, blowing air through his nose. She can almost see him shaking out his horns, his beard scraggly and his feet clopping on the tiles, and she can’t quite hide a grin behind her hand.

“Do you see this?” her father cries, and Tiana’s mother shrinks into her seat down the hall, thoroughly cowed. “Do you see what I have to put up with? A boy, now, a proper dominant son of von Riegan, with a _crest_ and the dignity afforded to his station, he would never shame his people by fraternizing with _beasts._ ”

“They’re not beasts, Papa,” Tiana says, and scowls when he turns his blazing glare her way. “They’re just _annoying._ ”

Like that boy, Malik, the one who seemed to think he was such a great shot, with his ridiculous swagger and his cracking voice. As though he could try and order _her_ around when he can’t even grow proper stubble yet! 

“I won’t have this,” her father says. “There can be no insubordination within the Alliance when Almyra will be happy to place their boots on our necks. Did you not think what could have happened?” he asks. “If they’d known who you were to me, they could have—“

“I’m not _anything_ to you,” Tiana says. Her father stops, temporarily speechless, as she flings her hand away from her cheek. “You’ve made that clear enough.” 

“Oh, now I’m a villain,” her father shouts, as Tiana races past him, past her broken bow, past her quiet, well-behaved mother. She charges into the library and slams the door shut, rattling glass sconces on the walls, and bursts into furious tears.

Tiana _hates_ crying. It makes her feel stuffy and fogged and thin, and she gives it up when no one seems ready to come in and apologize properly. She scrubs her face on her father’s handkerchief and breathes heavily, thinking of that boy shouting at her by the archery contest. As though it were _her_ fault she’d fallen out of a tree. As though he had a right to shout at her. Like _anyone_ has the right to shout at her.

She starts pulling books off the shelves, setting them down on the end table where her father likes to smoke. There aren’t many on Almyra, just a book of dirty poetry she doesn’t care for, a primer on the language, and a book of myths. She skims through the primer for the words _asshole_ or _dick,_ doesn’t find them, and drags out the book of mythology instead. She’s just about to crack it open when someone thumps on the door.

“Here, now, old sport.” Her brother’s voice, light and airy, with that jovial manner that sets Tiana’s teeth on edge, winds through the room. “You’ve upset Father something fierce, and Mother’s practically in tears. Be a good girl and apologize so we can have this all over and done with.”

“Shut up, Godfrey,” Tiana snaps. There’s a moment of actual silence on the other side of the door, then a soft laugh.

“Oof, you _are_ your father’s daughter,” Godfrey says, and Tiana flings herself out of her chair.

“Don’t say that!” she shouts. The door opens, and her brother, cringing slightly at the unchecked power in her demanding voice, eases into the room. “Don’t you say that! How _dare_ you—“

“Easy, firebrand,” Godfrey says. He’s so much taller than she is, but he carries himself like a proper submissive, the way all Tiana’s tutors try to make _her_ walk and smile and bow her head. He takes Tiana by the arms and looks her over. “No one’s taught you how to tone down that voice of yours, huh?”

“No one’s taught me anything,” Tiana says, even if this isn’t exactly true. 

“Well, I doubt Father will bother to teach you how to be a proper dominant,” Godfrey says. “We’re both disappointments to him, aren’t we? But it doesn’t mean we have to turn into beasts, Tiana. Think about where you’re pointing that weapon.” He taps Tiana’s throat, and she frowns slightly. She’d never thought of it like that before, but it’s true. Her father _does_ treat dominance like a weapon, like a blunt instrument that can beat down anyone who dares to oppose him. The thought of doing that—of becoming that—makes her shiver.

“Sorry,” she says. “But only to you, Godfrey. The rest of them can go hang.”

“I’ll take that,” Godfrey says, and she smiles weakly at his easy grin. Godfrey picks up one of the books and flops into the chair. “What’s this you’re reading? Elementary Almyran? Learning the language of the enemy, are we?”

“They aren’t _my_ enemy,” Tiana says, wriggling into the chair next to him. “I just want to learn how to say, _Stop shouting at me, you uncultured asshole,_ and _I could outshoot you with my eyes closed._ ”

Godfrey gives her a long, thoughtful look. “So. The enemy.”

“Ugh. Whatever. You know Almyran, don’t you?”

Godfrey blushes darkly. “Nothing you’ll want to repeat.”

“You bet I would,” Tiana says, and Godfrey sighs. 

He does teach her a few insults, like _I hope your dick falls off_ , which is practical, and _tits,_ which isn’t, but makes Tiana laugh. By the time they’ve started going through the primer, with Godfrey teaching her how to make the right vowel sounds, Tiana’s fury is a quiet thing, bubbling far beneath the surface.

A bell rings downstairs, and Godfrey rises to his feet. “That’s my latest suitor, I’ll bet,” he says. He brushes back his hair with both hands. “Father says he has someone from Gloucester for me this time, of all things. What do you think?”

“They probably don’t deserve you,” Tiana says, and Godfrey smiles. “Even if you are a nerd and a kiss-up.”

“They probably don’t,” Godfrey says. “I’ll have to keep an eye out for poison in my tea, I suppose.”

Tiana snorts. “Their tea probably stinks, anyways.”

“Most likely.” Godfrey winks at her and eases out of the room. It feels empty, now, and too quiet, and Tiana pulls out the book of myths just to hear the pages rustle under her thumb. She wonders if the boy from the competition has a book like this at home, or if he’s like all the dominant noble boys in Fódlan, all swagger and no substance. She flips to a page at random, and gasps in delight at a full-page illustration of a woman wreathed in bands of rippling light, rising to the stars.

“The woman who married the moon,” she reads, and smiles, thinking of the crescent moon of her own house. The woman in the illustration is laughing even as she’s being carried up into the heavens, unbothered by the world she’s leaving behind, and Tiana brushes her fingers over the illustration with a yearning she can’t fully understand. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s seen in her life. 

_I wish someone could look at me that way,_ she thinks, examining the face of the woman in the picture. But she isn’t the moon, or a prince from one of Godfrey’s favorite books, or even one of the pretty, waifish things that dance across canvas in her bedroom. She’s just a girl who falls out of trees and gets into rows with strange boys, who can’t do more than run and hide when her father breaks her favorite bow. But she’ll get there. She can feel it under her skin, a thrill of excitement, of anticipation, like the perfect pull of a string and heft of a bow under her fingers before an arrow flies. One day, she’ll be so beautiful, so powerful, so wild, that people will fall over themselves just for the chance to love her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Laila and Princess Aurora are returned to Almyra by Dimitri and Felix, who are very happy to see their dominant again. 
> 
> (Features dancing, cute domestic moments, hot scenes with some hard-up submissives and the love story of Tiana and Malik!)

Shrieks echo across the wide plaza at the steps of the Almyran palace, shivering in the morning air. Wyverns whistle and chirp in the stables, horses shake their jingling tack, and servants and stablehands take one look at the Fódlan carriages, give each other sideways glances, and promptly ignore the screams rising from within.

“Dad!” Laila, crown princess of Almyra, drops from the steps of the lead carriage and goes barreling across the cobbles before Felix can properly grab her. Her pink hair is braided in a bun, and she’s wearing a dove-grey dress that would have looked lovely if she hadn’t spent the entire morning rolling back and forth across Felix and Dimitri’s knees. Felix swallows a curse and lurches out of the carriage after her.

He catches her halfway across the plaza, where he scoops her up in his arms with a huff. “Alright, you little dragon,” he says. “Wait for your sister.”

“But Rora’s too slow,” Laila groans, flopping in Felix’s arms like a wriggling, pink-haired fish. At the top of the steps before them, Claude is very obviously trying not to laugh, shoulders shaking in his cloak. Hilda is half draped over him, probably too used to sleeping past dawn to be fully awake, and Marianne fidgets, twisting her fingers together. 

At three years old, Aurora is Laila’s earnest, round-faced shadow with her birth mother’s blue hair and Dimitri’s eyes, and she trots grimly at Dimitri’s side as he lopes towards them.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you?” Dimitri asks. Aurora shakes her head, her braided pigtails swaying. “Very well. Show your mothers and father what big, strong ladies you are, will you?”

Laila stares at Dimitri with the abject sorrow of a four year old who is no longer allowed to scream like a banshee at six in the morning, and sighs gustily.

“Yeah, life is hard,” Felix says.

They make it halfway up the steps before the girls break. Laila kicks her way out of Felix’s grip and goes running straight for Claude, and Aurora looks at Dimitri, eyes wide and beseeching, before she gently slips her hand free and fumbles up the steps. Marianne breaks away from Hilda’s side to intercept her, and Aurora latches onto her so tightly that Marianne has to hobble backwards up the steps again, towing her on her skirts.

“They missed you,” Felix says, as Claude lifts Laila into a hug. “I think.”

“Possibly,” Marianne says. 

“Uncle Ashe has a _dog,_ ” Aurora says into Marianne’s knees. Ashe and Dedue’s dog, a wolfhound over half the size of Felix, has become Aurora’s latest obsession. “He’s named Sugar and he eats everything.”

“That’s amazing,” Marianne says. She leans over so Dimitri can kiss her hand in greeting, and blushes faintly as his lips brush her knuckles. It’s remarkable, really, how they can still blush at a chaste kiss after all this time. “I have some new cats to show you. Serena had kittens while you were gone.”

Aurora gasps. 

In Claude’s arms, where she’s gently kicking her legs like Claude’s elbow is her own private swing, Laila’s speaking in swift, babbling Almyran.

“And Papa gave me a wooden sword and two new dolls and a saddle for the pony and I got to brush her and Daddy said I could wear a suit to dinner and I did and it was so pretty and I got to eat dessert first and—“

“Oh, saints,” Dimitri says. “We’ve been had.”

“Dessert before dinner, huh?” Claude says, and gives them both a long, blank stare. 

“Just the once,” Dimitri says, as Felix says, “Only a few times.”

Dimitri glares at Felix, who examines his nails.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Claude says, and Dimitri unconsciously clasps his hands behind his back. “But it sounds like you had fun in Fódlan. Was it cold?”

“Super cold,” Laila says. “Papa gave me a new fur coat, too.”

Felix shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know what you were expecting.”

“I was expecting them to be spoiled,” Hilda says, reaching over to take Laila. She hugs her tight and sets her down again. “And they were. Good job, Felix.”

“That’s not—“ Claude starts to say, but then Aurora tugs on his trousers, and he glances down.

“Up?” she whispers.

Felix can see what’s left of Claude’s reserve crumple, and as he lifts Aurora in his arms, Felix leans in towards Marianne and lowers his voice.

“He’s gotten them baby wyverns, hasn’t he.”

“Not yet,” Marianne whispers back. “But he will.”

Felix unbuttons the collar of his shirt as they make their way up the stairs, listening to Laila and Aurora recount four months of shenanigans spent between Fhirdiad and their summer home. It’s odd, how quickly he remembers what used to be nonsensical turnings and halls in the palace, how his still somewhat clumsy Almyran picks up bits and pieces of scattered conversation, the ease he feels even with the heat trickling into his bones. While Dimitri can only stay a few months at most for this visit, Felix is here for another four, and the thought thrills him. He touches the silver chain attached to his collar, and glances up to find Claude watching him, gaze sharp. Claude flashes him a knowing smile, and Felix nearly jumps as Laila races back to take his other hand.

“Papa,” she says. “Mom says she wants to see.”

“See what, darling?” Felix asks.

“The dance,” Laila says. “The fancy dance.”

Oh, goddess. Felix looks up at Hilda, who’s grinning. “I don’t think there’s room in the… in the hall…” he says, but Claude is already clearing out space, ushering Hilda and Marianne back, and Dimitri fucking _bows_ to him, the traitor.

It was just something to tire them out, really, on long, cold nights when Laila kept trying to tell ghost stories and Aurora flopped all over the bed, complaining that she wasn’t _tired,_ yet. And besides, just because Dimitri never learned to dance, Felix was tutored properly, and some memory of the old folk dances of the Fraldarius region still remain lodged in his brain.

“Yes,” he says. “Alright. Your royal highness,” he says to Laila, and bows. Laila grins and bows back, and Felix looks at Dimitri. “Music, please.”

Dimitri starts to clap, and Aurora, not to be outdone, claps back, entirely out of rhythm. Felix points at Laila, who stamps her foot twice, then Felix stamps his, and lifts her into the air to spin her around. He sets her down again, and Dimitri, Aurora, and Laila shout, _Hey!_

“Oh!” Marianne holds both hands to her mouth. “I know this one!” 

Felix lifts Laila into his arms again, making her screech with laughter, and holds one of her hands as they gallop down the hall. He sets her down, they stamp again, and gallop back the other way.

“Me!” Aurora cries. “Me! Papa, Papa!” 

So, of course, Felix has to go again. _Then,_ just as he’s resigned himself to hauling his daughters back and forth down the hall forever, Marianne takes his hands.

“Go on,” she says.

This time, when Felix stamps, Marianne stamps back with her other foot, the way the dancers in Faerghus are supposed to. She laughs suddenly, as though startled by her own boldness, and hitches up her skirts an inch. Felix twists her around by the waist and lifts her to the other side so that her back is to his chest. She holds out her hand, and when he takes it, she leads him down the hall.

She laughs as he spins her around again, and when they dance back the way they came, facing each other this time, their small audience bursts into applause.

Marianne covers her cheeks with both hands as Hilda pulls her into an almost frantic embrace. “I’ve never actually done that in person before!” she says.

“Mama, you were beautiful,” Aurora says.

“Way better than Daddy,” Laila says, and Dimitri laughs into his fist. The one time the girls tried the dance with him, they’d given up after a minute in utter disgust.

“That’s fine,” Claude says, sinking his fingers into Dimitri’s hair. “We’ll just have to give him lessons.”

***  
There is nothing quite like the sound of children in the palace. 

Lord Malik, Conquerer of the Starry Skies, Subjugator of the Landbound, former king of Almyra and doting grandfather, smiles over at his wife when he hears the small patter of feet racing through the royal wing. “They are back.” 

Tiana puts her book aside, rising from the hammock on the balcony of the suite they’ve claimed as their own, the bells woven into her skirt, her hair, and wrapped around her wrists and ankles jingling softly as she claps her hands together. “Oh, I’ve missed those little monsters.” 

“Yes. It’s been quiet without them. I’ve grown used to the sound of Khalid’s children, it is strange to have silence, now, without them.” 

“If only I --” she stops, shaking her head. 

Malik has known his wife since she was all of ten years old, though of course, they had known nothing of each other but their names back then. He hears the tone in her voice, wistful and a touch sad, the edges of an old hurt and perceived failure. He takes her hand and pulls her to him, a little rough in the way she’s always liked, the way that still makes her eyes flash and burn like shooting stars. 

“Stop that,” he says, gruffly. “You gave me an heir and he is clever and smart, brave and blooded in battle as he should be. He has the king of our ancient enemies collared and kneeling at his feet, along with his consort.” 

“I know that my son is indeed amazing.” She sighs. “It is only I know what your father used to say, that my weak blood couldn’t carry your children to term.” 

“My father also thought he could will away poison from a viper sting, since he believed himself part wyvern, and died shaking and sweating in a field tent refusing medical aid,” Malik reminds her. 

“That is true,” she says, shaking her head. “I would have liked him to meet his grandson. At least you are here to meet yours.” She leans up and kisses him. “I wish I could have given you a daughter, is all. A bright, vicious, clever little thing to wrap you around her fingers.” 

“You did. You gave me Khalid. Khalid, because he is a worthy man, earned the favor of Hilda. Hilda, because she is strong and fierce, earned the heart of her sweet creature, the bird-singer. And between them, they have given us two girl-children, princesses both.” He kisses her.

“Well.” She seems placated, though he knows she would have liked to have had more children; if only to prove his father wrong about her blood, though the late king had come to adore Tiana as the years went by. “I suppose that’s true. Let’s go and see our princesses, then, hmm? Khalid no doubt wishes to greet his submissives properly, a thing one cannot do with small ones clinging to one’s skirts.” 

She takes his arm and they leave their suite, heading for the children’s rooms. Malik winks at Tiana when they stop outside of it, and then Malik chases the smile off his face and flings the door opening, arms out, booming, “Children!” 

There are shrieks, and then two small tornadoes -- one pink-haired, one blue -- whirl toward Malik and Tiana. The children fling themselves at him, and he catches them easily and hauls them up in his arms. “Well? Did you forget in the cold land of snow that your favorite person in all of the world was back here, in Almyra?” 

“We missed you, Granddaddy!” cries Laila. “But we didn’t forget you! Promise!” She smiles up at him, green eyes sparkling, as adorable in good humor as Khalid was when he was small.

“Hi MALIK!” Aurora pulls on his beard and giggles. She has called him by his given name since she learned to talk, in a tone that sounds like she’s shouting, likely thanks to the way Tiana always says his name when she thinks he’s being terrible. It’s so funny that Malik doesn’t have the heart to chastise her, even if it makes the bird-singer bury her sweet face in her hands and shake her head in despair. 

“Well? How was Fódlan? Boring and cold, yes? I told you, you would want to come back.” His eyes search the room, finding the lion-cub and the fox-cub standing very close to his son, and smiles wolfishly. “I do not see my son’s cubs greeting me as they should, have they left their manners back in their land of ice?” 

He barely has to put any hint of dominance in his voice; his Khalid’s cubs go down like proper submissives, along with the bird-singer kneeling so prettily at his daughter Hilda’s side. Good. They know their place here. 

“Greetings from Fódlan, Lord Malik,” says the lion-cub, bowing with his blond head bent, staring at the floor in proper deference. A pity his ancestors had never done the same. 

“Well-met, my lord,” says the fox-cub. 

“Better, ” says Malik, winking at Aurora, who giggles and pulls his beard again. “Welcome home. The children need to eat. Too much bad food, yes? This is why you are sacks of bones.” He tickles Laila, then does the same to Aurora. “Tiana, my love. We will take them, fatten them up.” 

Tiana nods, ruffles Aurora’s hair and says, “Of course,” then moves over to greet Khalid’s submissives. The lion catches her in a hug, and the fox still blushes at Tiana’s sly grin when he kisses her hand, and that makes Malik laugh where he stands, one grandchild on each hip. 

“You will see to your cubs,” Malik tells his son. “And I will see to your dragonlets.” 

“I wanna see a real dragon, MALIK,” Aurora tells him, all big blue eyes like her father. 

“I wanna see it _first_ ,” demands Laila, pulling Malik’s hair, as bossy as her birth-mother. 

Ah, but he has missed them both. And they probably do need a proper meal. He will see to it. “We will go swimming, yes? I will see if you remember how to make splashes.” 

“I tried in a bathtub at Daddy and Papa’s castle but it’s not like a tub here, it’s small,” says Laila. “And the water outside is all froze but you can walk on it!” 

“These are lies you are telling your grandfather. Stories! Walking on frozen water, it sounds made up to me.” Malik’s face is very serious. 

“Nuh- _uh_!” Laila does not like it when anyone thinks she’s lying, a trait she shared with her father when he was small. Like Khalid, Malik assumes she will grow out of it. 

“I also missed my children,” Khalid says, now, with a slight smile. 

“I will bring them back to you, Khalid. Go now, your cubs are restless, that one is shifting on his knees, they grow impatient for the touch of a strong hand to settle them.” 

“The kids have been in a carriage all day,” Khalid says, smiling fondly as Laila tries to climb up on Malik’s back. “Kids, go play with your grandparents. Father, Mother, please don’t let them drown. Remember they’re small.” 

“This son of mine, he forgets who raised him,” Malik tells Aurora as Laila settles on his shoulders. He tosses Aurora in the air and catches her. 

“You did tie me behind a horse,” Khalid reminds him. “More than once.” 

Malik rolls his eyes. “You deserved it, son. And it taught you to be quick, run fast. Yes?” Malik tosses Aurora again. “But you were at least seven. Children, your father is boring me, let us go.” 

Tiana returns and pats Khalid on the shoulder. “Let us see the children, your father will return them properly worn out for a nap. Do the same to your cubs.” She kisses Khalid, who is blushing, on the cheek. 

“They know enough Almyran to understand what you’re saying, now, you know,” says Khalid. 

Malik shrugs. “I recall the times my heart was gone on the battlefield to tend to the soldiers, she was much the same when she returned, eager for your mother and I to put her gently in her place. There is no shame in it. Now, children, come, let us find you good Almyran food and go swim, yes?” 

The girls cheer, and Malik nods to his son and their cubs, his daughter and her sweet bird-singer, and steals his grandchildren with his wife in tow. 

“I imagine Hilda will tell them the good news,” Tiana says, as they walk, listening to the children chatter about their visit. Aurora leans over with her arms out and Tiana reaches for her, settles her on her hip. 

“Yes. They will tell the children, too, later.” He doesn’t wish to steal his daughter’s news, that little Laila and Aurora will soon have a sibling. No surprise; his son has a difficult time keeping his hands off his wife, especially over the last few months with no children underfoot and no cubs to kneel for him. 

“Where’s grandmom?” asks Aurora, asking after Salma. 

“Oh, she is visiting your Uncle Zahir, but she will be here soon,” says Tiana, warmly, stroking her hand over Aurora’s hair. She smiles up at Malik, her earlier mood having vanished now that her grandchildren are back. 

“I learned to talk like Daddy,” Laila says, then, in Fódlan, “Hello, I am Laila, I am a princess.” She peeks at her grandmother. “Is that right, Grandma?” 

“That was perfect, darling,” Tiana praises, smiling. 

“Daddy talks better like that,” says Aurora, playing with Tiana’s necklace. “I want bells like this too, Grandma.” 

“How come Daddy doesn’t talk Almyran better like you do, Grandma? You’re from Fódlan,” says Laila, from her perch on Malik’s shoulders. 

“I’ve lived here a lot longer, sweetheart, that’s why,” says Tiana.

“But you don’t go back and forth with us,” Laila says. 

“That is very true. I like to stay here.” Tiana opens the door to their suite. 

“Why?” Laila asks, curious as Khalid always was -- and Malik does not think she will grow out of _that_ , since her father never did, either. “Is it ‘cause Grandaddy stole you?” 

“What? Your father tells you such stories,” says Malik. “I will tell you the truth of it, do you want to hear?” 

“Yes!” both girls chorus. 

“Then get ready to go to swim, and I will tell you of how I met your grandmother, and you will show me you have not forgotten how to splash in a pool not covered in ice,” says Malik. 

“The bathtub didn’t have ice, the _pond_ did,” Laila corrects him, imperious, looking very much like her mother. 

“Fódlan sounds terrible,” Malik says, setting her on her feet. “It is better here, yes?” 

The children talk all over each other as they try and tell Malik broken stories about dogs and food and ponds, but Tiana slides her hand in his and squeezes, smiling up at him. 

“It is better,” she says, softly, while they watch the children dash about. “At least, I’ve always thought so.” 

*** 

One of the things Claude can’t quite get over is that, after nearly seven years of having Dimitri and Felix wearing his collar, he’s still so bowled over by the sheer _joy_ of watching them kneel for him. 

Maybe it’s the time apart, but Claude doesn’t think so. He’s still so in love with them both, and the feelings have only grown deeper over the years, with their growing family tightening their bonds even more. For a man who once felt himself an outsider everywhere he went, the sense of _belonging_ is heady indeed. 

_My children are never going to feel that way. They’ll know they’re loved in Almyra, in Fódlan, hell, even in Kupala._ This is all he’s ever wanted, a world of open borders where people can make a home anywhere. He earned it through his wits and schemes and by blood; Claude was willing to kill, _had_ killed, to see the world he wanted realized. But gods willing, his children will never have the blood on his hands that he does. 

That Hilda does. Felix. Dimitri, who still has the occasional nightmare. Even Marianne, sweet-hearted as she is, took lives to bring about a world where their children wouldn’t have to. 

“Claude,” Hilda says, interrupting him with a soft hand on his arm. “Can we get the news out of the way?” She yawns. “I need a nap.”

Dimitri and Felix are both still kneeling, and Claude can already tell that Felix is too hot; his shirt is unbuttoned, though Claude thinks that’s more to show off his collar than anything. “Sure. We’ll do that, and then I’ll take these two to their room and make sure they’re settled.” He grins. 

Hilda snorts indelicately, and strokes her fingers down his chin. “Thank the goddess you two are back,” she says, strolling over to pet Dimitri’s hair, and then give Felix’s a harsh tug. “It was just me and Mari for _months_. He’s, like. All pent-up dom energy. I bet you two are gonna have fun.” 

Dimitri’s breath catches, and Felix shifts on his knees. 

Claude grins. “You’re such an evil tease, Hilda.” 

She smiles, happy as a cat, and winks over Felix’s head at him. “Tell them, go on. I’ll get my proper share of attention and we’ll meet up later.” 

“You could tell them, you know,” Claude says. Mostly because he’s sort of an evil tease, too. 

“Someone tell me, I don’t care who,” says Felix, glancing up. His face is flushed, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Do you know how hard it is to get any time for _anything_ with two toddlers?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Claude says, grinning at Hilda and Marianne both. “We do. Why do you think we send the kids with you?” 

“At least they can go outside, here. It’s still snowing in Fhirdhiad.” Felix narrows his eyes. “They should spend the summer with us. It doesn’t snow that much.” 

“We have the summerhouse for a reason, Felix,” Dimitri says, and he’s still staring at the floor, head bowed, and oh, if Felix is this hard-up for it, poor Dima must be _dying_. Claude can’t wait to get his hands on them, except seeing how badly they’re waiting for it is almost too hot to want to stop. 

“You could just move here,” Hilda says. 

“When Aurora is of age, perhaps,” says Dimitri. “As of now, she would, I fear, spend all her time on the throne orchestrating elaborate tea-parties with her dolls and demanding to see every animal in the kingdom.” 

“Oh,” Marianne says, softly. “My sweet girl.” 

Dimitri does raise his head to smile over at her. “Later, remind me to tell you about the barn cat fiasco and the baby bird’s nest.” 

Felix groans. “Later, Dima.” 

“Yes,” Marianne says, smiling at Dimitri. “We’ll have tea, and you can tell me everything.” 

“But for now,” Hilda interrupts. “I guess you could say, get used to being interrupted because Claude, without you two around to keep him distracted, is like, super insatiable --” 

“Excuse _me_ , but the night in question, if you’ll recall, darling, was because _you_ \--” 

“Another one,” Felix says, speaking over them both. “You’re having another one.” 

“I -- oh!” Dimitri catches on, turning his face up and beaming at Hilda. “You’re with child.” 

Hilda rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she nods. “Yup. You can just say _pregnant_ , though. I can tell someone’s been spending too much in Fódlan.”

“I _am_ the king,” Dimitri reminds her. 

She pats him on the face and smiles. “Not here, you’re not. And not when you let me pull your hair again when I give birth to this one.” She removes her hand and pats her stomach, which has only recently begun to gently swell. 

Dimitri, ever polite, glances at Claude. “May I congratulate her, your majesty?” 

Claude nods, and Dimitri gets to his feet, enveloping Hilda in a hug and kissing her cheek. “Congratulations to you both.” 

“Thank you. Felix, you may also give me your congratulations,” Hilda says, with a grin, holding her hand out. 

Felix rises, takes it and bows much as he did for Claude’s mother. “Could this one be. Not as chatty as the other two, maybe.” 

Claude snorts. His and Hilda’s kid, quiet? Never. 

“Felix, you adore our children’s chatter,” Dimitri says, and Claude’s entire chest _aches_ at _our children_. 

“For several hours in a carriage, non-stop?” 

“Some masochist,” Hilda huffs, but turns her cheek for Felix’s quick kiss. “There, now you know, and I’m off for a nap. Mari, baby girl, come with me? Or do you want to play with Claude and his cubs?” 

“Still not sure I like that nickname,” says Felix, who does. 

“No one believes you anymore when you say that,” Hilda tells him, and she and Marianne head into the bedroom. 

Claude waits for a second after the door closes, strides across the room, grabs Dimitri by his collar and pulls him down into a long, thorough kiss. Dimitri’s big hands go to his hips, and Claude’s so eager to get his hands all over them both that he doesn’t even mind when Dimitri lifts him, bodily, pressing Claude against him as he kisses back. 

Eventually he bites Dimitri’s lower lip and says, “Down, boy,” and laughs when Dimitri huffs and returns him to his feet. 

Then he moves over to Felix, unbuttons a few more unbuttons so he can see the chain of Felix’s collar and smiles, fingers tangling in Felix’s already-messy black hair. It’s so long that out of its braid, it’s probably halfway down his back.

“Claude -- Khalid,” Felix pants, and oh, look how hard up he is for it, it’s _beautiful_ , Claude’s mouth goes dry at the thought of how good this is going to be. “It’s been. Months. Please.” 

“Well. You did say please.” With a fond, indulgent smile, Claude smacks him, hard, across the face. 

His moan gets Claude hard in seconds. “I don’t know why the two of you are still dressed, but you shouldn’t be. Strip, and let’s see if you remember how to please me or if we need a few reminders.” 

Of course they’ll remember, they always do. But watching them fumble eagerly to prove it, well, what’s better than that? 

***

Felix is a mess. Four months, and the only night to themselves had been at the mercy of Annette, who roped the girls into a slumber party in the great hall while Felix tied Dimitri’s hands to the headboard and rode him until his thigh cramped. Dimitri had to rip the ropes apart to help him massage the muscle, which. That had been nice, just bits of rope and Dimitri’s straining arms, but Dimitri kept laughing at his own terrible puns about _pulling something_ , so Felix fucked his mouth for him and they passed out with Dimitri still hard, too worn-out for anything else.

So yeah, maybe Felix is a little desperate. 

Felix rips the fabric of his trousers, and Dimitri sneaks him a sidelong look. Fuck these trousers. They’re too hot for Almyra, anyways, and he has his robe in the closet. He kicks them into a pile next to Dimitri’s painstakingly folded clothes, then drops back to his knees with a thump that even Claude can feel, because Claude’s smile goes vaguely wicked at the corners.

“Usually, it's Dimitri who’s champing at the bit,” he says, and Dimitri, kneeling perfectly at Felix’s side, takes a sudden breath. Claude rubs his hand through Dimitri’s hair. “Oh, you like that. I know. I’d like to get you in a proper muzzle this time, ride you like a wyvern, have you really let go.” He lets his fingers slip free of Dimitri’s hair, and Dimitri leans into it, lips parted.

Claude stops in front of Felix and presses a thumb to his lips. Felix takes it, sucks on it, but it isn’t nearly enough, and Claude knows. He wipes his thumb on Felix’s cheek and slaps him twice in quick succession, too fast for Felix to draw breath after the first blow. It leaves Felix moaning, and he barely hears Claude’s quiet order to Dimitri before he realizes it is spoken in Almyran.

“Dima, get the cane.” Felix’s face heats, and he _loves_ Claude, it’s ridiculous and inane to think this when he’s on his knees and about to be caned (he hopes, please) within an inch of his life, but he does, and when Claude sees his dumbstruck look, he smiles and drops to a knee to kiss him. It’s a hungry kiss—Claude is as eager for this as Felix—and Felix nearly sways in his knees when Claude pulls away.

“And a leash,” Claude says, looking back at Dimitri. “For you.”

Dimitri crawls back with them in his mouth, which Felix can’t really blame him for, right now, and Claude ruffles his hair before he takes them. He clips the leash to Dimitri’s collar and leaves Felix kneeling on the floor so he can walk Dimitri to the bed. 

“Don’t move,” Claude orders, when Dimitri is seated, kneeling on the edge of the bed. Claude snaps his fingers at Felix and points to his feet, and Felix considers the cane in Claude’s free hand for a breathless moment before he crawls over. The silver chain of his collar slides over his shoulders and chest as he does, and the crescent moon of Claude’s house glints in the light. 

“Look at you, you’re shaking,” Claude says, which Felix hasn’t even noticed until now, with Claude lifting his trembling fingers to his mouth. Claude kisses them, gently, before guiding Felix upright. “Lean on Dimitri. He’s here to be used, isn’t he, to serve? And he’ll be serving as your whipping post today. Dimitri,” he adds, when Dimitri’s cheeks flush dark and his hands clench on his thighs. Claude jerks at the leash, and Dimitri’s eye goes glassy and dark. “Remember not to move. I won’t warn you again. Every time you do, Felix gets another lash.”

Like that isn’t what Felix wants. Like Felix isn’t already bending over, resting his arms on Dimitri’s shoulders, toes curling in anticipation. “Just. Do it,” he says. “Please.”

“You can beg prettier than that,” Claude says, and Felix hears the cane whip through the air, like Claude is idly twisting his wrist in sharp circles. “Convince me.”

“Are you kidding,” Felix says. Dimitri gives him an admonishing look. “Are you—I’m—that’s like telling a man dying of thirst to explain why he needs water, Khalid, _saints,_ give me enough time and I’ll crawl after you in the halls every day for a year, I—you want me to—I’ve wanted your hands on me since—“ 

He jolts as a sharp sting of pain lances across his backside, followed by the searing burn of the cane. Felix groans, clasping his hands behind Dimitri’s neck, and tries to straighten out his legs.

“Keep going,” Claude says. There’s the telltale whistle of the cane, this time, without Felix’s babbling to hide it, and Felix gasps out a low, broken sound into his own arm. Dimitri shifts slightly, and there are two more blows, swift and precise, that has Felix moaning raggedly. “Tell me how much you missed me.”

Felix struggles to open his eyes. His mouth hangs open, panting just from a few strikes, and he bites at his lip when he sees Claude holding Dimitri’s leash taut, keeping him in place. The cane lies still at his side.

“Fuck,” Felix says. “Yes, I. I did. Miss you. Missed this.”

“Really? I haven’t caned you in a year,” Claude says, and Felix moans again at the snap and burn of the cane. His cock is impossibly hard and he can barely think, but his hands aren’t shaking anymore, and he can feel himself slipping under. The pain is a pulse, a throbbing ache that rushes through him, chases out the restlessness. 

“We could stand to— _Ah! Fuck, fuck, Khalid, Cl…_ kuh…” He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, can’t tell if he’s begging or pleading or just making garbled sounds, and when he feels skin split under the cane, his knees clench together and Dimitri instinctively reaches up to hold him upright.

“One more,” Claude says, and there’s a slight pause there, a way for Felix to tap out, so Felix grabs Dimitri’s shoulders and shakes him, startling a laugh out of Claude. “Two, then.”

“Please,” Felix says, or he thinks he does, but there’s that whistle and crack, the line of fire on his skin. He bends almost double, collapsing in Dimitri’s lap, and the last strike takes his legs out from under him. He hangs off of Dimitri, panting heavily, his face a mess of tears, while Dimitri trembles and clenches his fingers and stares down at him like he’ll literally _die_ if he doesn’t move.

“Good,” Claude says, somewhere beyond him. “That was very good. I broke the skin once or twice there, so lie down—Yeah, right there’s fine, right on the floor, good boy—and I’ll get the salve.”

Felix drifts. Claude strokes his hair as he tends to him, tells him how lovely and perfect he is, and Felix doesn’t do more than huff out a sharp breath and attempt to roll his eyes. 

“You’ll feel this for _weeks,_ ” Claude says at last, lifting Felix’s chin to kiss him.

“Love you,” Felix whispers, before he pulls away. 

“I love you, too,” Claude says. He’s smiling as he tugs gently at Felix’s hair. “Remember that when we’re all having dinner tonight.”

As though Felix is likely to forget. 

*** 

Claude is _buzzing_ when he’s finished with Felix, all his nerves lit up, twirling the cane like he used to twirl arrows. He’s almost sad when he has to put it aside, but then again...he has something else to play with. Something big and handsome and kneeling so pretty, so patient, waiting for Claude. 

After he finishes with Felix, Claude spends some time petting him and praising him, watching Felix try and fail to pretend like he hates that. 

“Gonna take care of our Dima, now,” Claude murmurs, kissing Felix’s ear. “Be good for me and watch, okay, sweet thing?” 

“Mm,” Felix says, blinking. “Yeah. He. He needs it. Don’t let him. Puns, Khalid. No.” 

Claude smiles, stroking Felix’s hair, overcome by his affection for his gorgeous submissive with the marks from Claude’s cane on his ass and upper thighs. “You’re so beautiful, so good, so sweet,” he croons. “But sometimes, I like Dimitri’s puns.” 

“No,” Felix whispers. But there’s a smile somewhere, in his voice if nowhere else. Claude’s learned how to tell by now. 

Claude goes over to Dimitri, stands in front of him. Dimitri looks so good, patient as he kneels, hands on his knees. He gives the leash a tug. “I could make you do anything for me, right now, couldn’t I?” 

“Yes,” Dimitri says, his long blond hair hanging in his face. His big body is shaking. Claude can see him breathing fast, the edges of the white leather collar peeking out from between his loose hair. 

“Let me see you, you gorgeous thing,” Claude says. He reaches out and pushes Dimitri’s hair out of his face, smiling at the look of eager, hungry adoration Dimitri gives him. “Ah, yes. So patient, you’ve been waiting, yeah?” He slips two fingers into Dimitri’s mouth, shivering when Dimitri sucks on them. “You want to serve me, my lion? Is that it?” 

Dimitri’s assent is a low rumble in his chest as he nods, tongue wrapping around Claude’s fingers, even using his teeth. 

“Then you’re going to fuck me. Hard. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to get railed like I deserve?” Claude leans in and kisses him, soft and so sweet, the opposite of how he wants Dimitri to take him. 

“I -- a long time,” Dimitri says. “Is that -- is that right? I. Want to -- please, Claude. Use me, I -- want that. So badly.” 

“You’re so hot, Dimitri. So hot, so good, gonna make you fuck me into a mess on that bed.” He grabs Dimitri by the face and kisses him, aggressive, thrilling at how he can be rough with Dimitri in a way he just can’t with anyone else. “Gods, I’ve missed you. Both of you. Dima, go pick Felix up, put him on his stomach on the bed. I bet he’d like to watch.” 

“What,” Felix mumbles, from the floor. “Move. No. Can see. S’fine.” 

Claude gets up, waits, and Dimitri climbs off the bed, bends down and picks Felix up. 

“Stop,” Dimitri says, carrying him. “Khalid wants this. Hush.” He ruins it by lifting Felix up even _higher_ and nuzzling his nose, which is cute and ridiculous and makes Felix scoff without any real heat. 

Felix is gently placed on the bed, and then Claude holds his arms out. “Attend to me, my lion. Strip me so I can properly receive your adoration.” 

“How do you come up with this stuff,” Felix murmurs, from behind his hair. 

“Shush, you’ve had yours. Be patient.” He grins over at Felix, gives him a little smack on the sore spots on his ass and laughs outright when Felix moans. 

Dimitri is smiling at them both, like he’s the luckiest man in the world and he can’t be because _Claude_ is. He takes his time stripping Claude, removing every piece of clothing and folding it, hands reverent. When Claude is naked, he pulls Dimitri’s hair back and ties it, so he can see his face, then undoes the eyepatch and gently sets it aside. “You don’t need to hide yourself from me. You know how beautiful I think you are.” He draws Dimitri in for a kiss; not the harsh biting kind he knows Felix likes, but it’s strong, purposeful, shows Dimitri that he might have been the king the last few months but here? He’s Claude’s, and Claude is going to take care of him. 

“I missed you,” Claude says, against his mouth. He tugs on the leash. “Missed seeing you on your knees. Missed the way you want so badly to please me. Missed your gorgeous cock.” 

“I missed that, too,” Felix says, from the bed. Pointedly. 

Claude laughs and moves to the bed. “I’ll keep that in mind. I think Dima won’t mind being kept tied to the bed for us to take our pleasure, will you, Dimitri?” 

“I -- whatever you wish of me, your majesty,” he says, and oh, he’s so under just at the leash, at stripping Claude, at the _thought_ of service. Leadership rides him hard, and Dimitri takes his service to the people of Fódlan. He’s a good king, respected and loved as much now for his policies as his war prowess. He deserves this, a chance to set aside the burdens of the crown and _submit_. 

“Rail me into the mattress and fuck me until I’m screaming,” Claude says, grinning at Dimitri. “And if you can make me cry, I’ll like it. I’ve needed it, Dima.” 

“Yeah,” Felix mutters, settling and watching them with his head on his arms. “Wanna see that.” 

Claude hands Dimitri a vial of oil and climbs on the bed, on his hands and knees. He’s so eager for it that his cock is standing tall between his legs, and if he thought he could last, he’d have Felix stroke him while Dimitri fucked him. But he doesn’t think he’s going to last; even the thought of feeling Dimitri’s cock stretching him has Claude panting for it. 

Dimitri settles behind him, and Claude can hear him slicking himself up with the oil. “Shall I get you ready to take me, sire? My fingers?” 

Claude shivers, grabbing at the bedding as his cock _throbs_. Dimitri only ever calls him _sire_ when he’s feeling especially submissive, and Claude understands; it’s been months since they’ve been together. 

It makes Claude feel wild, almost untethered with how _up_ it makes him -- he’s so restless that the only thing he can even do to channel the sudden rush of dominance is turn, grab Felix’s chin and lean over so he can spit in Felix’s open mouth. 

Felix stares at him, breathing hard, eyes wide. He doesn’t close his mouth, so Claude tips his chin up to make him and says, “Do it.” 

Claude lightly grabs Felix around the throat so he can feel it when Felix closes his mouth and swallows. It’s so hot, Claude throws his head back and moans. “Dimitri, fuck me _now_.” 

Dimitri does. He settles behind Claude, murmuring quiet words of nonsense and adoration in both languages, pressing inside Claude with slow, aching pressure and his fingers biting tight on Claude’s hips. Felix is watching with glassy eyes, almost panting, and Claude hasn’t been fucked in a while so it takes him a little bit of time to adjust, but when he does he starts pushing back and demanding more. 

“Give it to me, Dimitri,” he demands, fingers curling tight into the bedding. “I’m a king. Fuck me like you’re serving one.” 

“Yes, oh, yes,” Dimitri moans, already so hard, so eager, driving his perfect and beautiful cock inside Claude, forcing Claude up the bed as he does so. “So good, sweetheart, is that what you wanted?” 

“Yeah, good, that’s -- mm, harder, do it harder,” Claude pants, head falling down, surrendering to the feel of it, Dimitri fucking him. “Tell me how much you missed me, Dima. Tell me how you thought about serving me, making me happy. Let me hear you.” 

“I -- so much, I wanted this, to make you happy, ah,” Dimitri moans, fingers tight, dragging Claude back on his cock as he thrusts forward. “Is it -- please, tell me how, sire, I want you to -- to feel -- to feel good, please, let me -- missed you so much, Khalid, love you, love -- love fucking you, I --” 

Getting Dimitri to babble is always an accomplishment. Claude is so close that he’s nearly about to come after just a few rough thrusts. He loves this, though, the way Dimitri falls apart while using his strength to fuck Claude just like he’s been dreaming about for _months_. 

“That’s it, good, yeah--” Claude is probably _also_ babbling, but the hard drive of Dimitri’s cock is making him lose his mind, and he’s starting to talk in Almyran now -- luckily Dimitri knows the language. 

It doesn’t take much longer, just a few more of those deliciously deep, hard thrusts before Claude half-falls forward on his elbows and comes all over the bedding, cock untouched, simply from the force of Dimitri’s thrusts and the drag against his prostate. It’s so good, so hot, his entire body seizes and he sees flashes of white behind his eyes. 

“Please, please, sire, may I -- may I,” Dimitri groans, shaking against Claude. 

“On Felix,” Claude gasps. “Do it on Felix. All over him.” 

Dimitri pulls out, and Claude gets half a second to move on his side so he can watch Dimitri rise like a god on his knees, head thrown back, hair a tangled mess as he jerks himself off all over Felix’s gorgeous, naked, marked-up body. 

Claude watches with a pleased, happy smile. Now it feels like his family really is home, and things are as they should be. When Dimitri falls to his back by Felix’s side, Claude -- possessed of his usual post-sex, post-scene energy - gets out of bed, kisses Dimitri and tugs Felix’s hair. “I’ll get something to clean up with. Ah, I missed you both.” 

“We missed you as well, Khalid.” He chuckles. “And also, Felix isn’t wrong. The children are wonderful, but the time alone is...quite lovely.” 

“It is, believe me, I know.” Claude laughs and shakes his head as he returns with a cloth for Felix. “Speaking of, I can’t even imagine what stories my parents are telling our children. My father is probably talking about taming a dragon with his bare hands, and my mother is probably telling them all about how she romanced _your mom_ , Felix.” 

“They’re barely old enough to know what that means,” Felix groans, but he smiles, small and quiet and content. 

***

“And Daddy says that’s why ghosts go away when you laugh,” Laila says, from where she is painstakingly braiding Aurora’s hair on the steps of the pool. Aurora is sitting in front of her, kicking her heels in the water while Laila ignores entire hanks of hair to make a tiny braid near her ear. “But Papa says you can shout, too. I like shouting better.”

“Shouting’s fun,” Aurora says. “But Mama says it’s not allowed after dark.”

Laila sighs with the wretched misery of a noble doomed to a life sentence, and ties one of Aurora’s braids together. Tiana, who has finally stepped down into the water to swim now that Malik has stopped flinging his grandchildren like giggling projectiles, gives her husband a slight smile and wades over. Aurora beams and holds out her little hands, and Tiana takes them.

“Do you want to swim with me, baby girl?” she asks.

“Yes, very much, please,” Aurora says, and she sounds so much like Khalid’s Dimitri that Tiana has to chuckle. She pulls Aurora into the water, holding her hands as she kicks furiously to keep up.

“Granddaddy,” Laila says, scooting to the edge so she can dip her legs in the water. “You promised us a story.”

“I did, did I?” Malik sweeps her up off the step, and Laila clings to his shoulders as he sinks dangerously low in the water. “That’s right. I was going to tell you how your grandmother came to Almyra.”

“The true story, sweet man,” Tiana warns. “No dragons in this one.”

“But I like dragons,” Aurora says.

“Your grandmother is dragon enough,” Malik says. “Beautiful and powerful and wise. Fódlan was not strong enough to keep her, but Almyra loves her, because we love our dragons, here. Do we not, my wife?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Tiana says. “But yes, I suppose you do.”

***

Tiana von Riegan sits quietly in her chair in the corner of the drawing room, placidly stabbing a needle through a patch of silk, as her father sits on the edge of the couch and tries to patch together a blurry image of the rest of her life.

“She’s young enough to bear healthy sons without complication,” her father says to Lord Goneril, who looks decidedly uncomfortable as he reaches for the sugar bowl. “A good pedigree. Plenty of dominant boys in our line, and even if her mother couldn’t carry every child to term, the doctor assured me she has a sturdy frame and a healthy constitution.”

Lord Goneril glances at Tiana, who smiles brightly. “Ah. Yes. I’m sure she, sure she does. But wouldn’t the young lady like to sit with us?”

“Thank you, no, my lord,” Tiana says. She makes another random stitch in her embroidery hoop. It looks a bit like a wound, really. “I’m quite fine here, by the window.”

Her father narrows his eyes.

“I did hear…” Lord Goneril smiles faintly. “That you were in a spot of trouble in Faerghus last year. Is that true?”

“My daughter,” Tiana’s father says, in a tight, dangerous voice, “remains pure.”

“Not that sort of trouble, father,” Tiana says sweetly, and jabs her needle into the cloth. She can’t help her own small smile. Trouble in Faerghus was almost delightful. Trouble came with long, dark hair and a pretty angular face, smiling at Tiana from the other end of a rapier. Trouble was long legs twisting on furs and a lovely, expressive mouth, a swordswoman’s body warming under her fingers. Trouble was wicked and beautiful and clever, far too clever for Faerghus, sneaking through the halls in the dead of night to kneel at her feet.

Trouble was also engaged. Which was a shame, really. Still is. Tiana could use a sweet distraction with her father treating her like a mare ripe for the selling. She sighs.

Lord Goneril is a good sort, in the end, which means they probably won’t be a proper match. He actually apologizes to her in the hall, furtive and bright-eyed, and he pulls her off to the side while her father is booming orders at the servants.

“Of course,” he says, in a soft voice, “House Goneril will gladly welcome you if you ever find yourself in the area.”

“Sweet man,” Tiana says, touching his cheek with her knuckle, and Lord Goneril colors magnificently. “But I do think I’ll be rather busy for a while. I’ll remember you, though, if I happen by.”

He scampers off before her father can properly make arrangements, and Tiana drops her stitching into the bin before ascending the high, winding steps to her room.

Her father can interview potential suitors as long as he likes, so far as Tiana is concerned. She came of age during her short, wonderfully scandalous tenure in Faerghus, and as a full grown woman with her own minor crest of Riegan and a dominant touch that can make even her father back down if she wishes it, she’ll be damned if she’s sent off to carry on the line. Godfrey’s effectively worked himself into a state of cheerful noncompliance, taking on their father’s duties with the Alliance while pointedly boring every young (or old) suitor their father produces. It’s a talent that Tiana almost wishes she could master for herself, but the world has enough dulll people in it without pretending to be one of them.

Tiana opens her box from Faerghus and pushes aside gowns, a beautiful scarf with whales stitched on the hem, and a pair of gloves, and pulls out the last gift trouble bequeathed her: A long, curved sabre in the Almyran style, perfectly balanced and tempered with waves of the finest steel. She flips it in her hand and smiles at the silk hangings of her childhood bedroom, the uneasy sanctuary of a girl who couldn’t be kept. There are stars drawn on the walls, books and books of Almyran language texts, arrows and daggers and beautiful gowns that flow like clouds around her ankles. She laughs alone in this small room, pulls out her brother’s riding clothes, which she’d stolen from him a year ago and modified with her own careful touches, and wriggles out of her morning gown.

It’s laughably easy to escape the grounds. The servants are all well aware of where Tiana intends to go, and since none of them are particularly _fond_ of her boorish father and his inelegant manner of dominance, all it takes is a smile here, a touch there, for Tiana to have a small army of people prepared to facilitate her escape. She waves to the stablehand on her way out, dressed in her brother’s clothes with her hair done up in jeweled pins under her cap, and laughs as she urges her horse to a canter.

It’s been years since last she dared to venture this close to the camp where the Almyrans and Alliance soldiers cut their swords on friendly competition rather than on each other, but she remembers the way as though it’s instinct, riding peacefully under the trees that skirt the encampment. She flips up her hood and turns her horse up the trail, searching for the Almyran tents, and grins as she sees the bright silver cloth flickering through the trees. It makes her think of moonlight, of that woman in her mythology book ascending to the moon, and feels a surge of something bright in her chest, delight too powerful to be constrained. She drops down from her horse and leads him to the trough on the Alliance side of the camp, but she keeps her gaze trained on the Almyrans.

There’s no sign of that boy—Malik, that rude, inconsiderate brute of a child, with that arrogant tilt to his chin and unfettered power in his voice, but she doubts he’d abandon the competition. He seemed the sort to take winning seriously, which will be a shame, of course, when they do cross paths again. She wonders how loudly he’ll shout when he loses.

“Boy.” 

Tiana turns halfway through removing her horse’s saddle to find a young Almyran man walking towards her. He’s handsome enough, with wild brown hair and a scar over his nose, and he has a cape slung over one shoulder. She props a hand on one hip and raises the other to her horse in the universal gesture for _I’m busy, actually,_ and the man bares his teeth in a grin.

“Where did you get that sword, boy?” he asks in Almyran, and Tiana thrills a little at the realization that she can understand him. All those years of talking back and forth with Godfrey have paid off in some small way, at least. “That isn’t one of ours, but the style is the same.”

“It was a gift,” Tiana says, in her own, thickly accented Almyran. The man raises his brows. “From a sweet thing in the,” she sighs. “Faerghus. And I’m not a boy.”

“Fódlan doesn’t let their women fight,” the man says, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “They’re too afraid of them.”

Tiana risks her own smile. “Maybe that’s true for some. But I’m not waiting for someone to _let_ me do anything.”

This makes him laugh loud enough that others in the camp start to notice, and he bows, his cape swinging. “I like you, little cat. I am Nader the Undefeated, captain of the king’s guard, and I look forward to seeing you fight. My cousin, he has won three years now, best swordsman in Almyra if you pretend I’m not there. You’ll give him a fight, yes?”

Tiana smiles again, and the man straightens from his bow, still chuckling to himself, and turns back to the Almyran camp. Another young man walks up to him, decked out in gold and green with emeralds winking at his ears, and Nader gestures at Tiana. The man looks at her—His eyes are cutting, dark, and his broad shoulders straighten somewhat—and Tiana glares at him even as his searching gaze warms her, stirs her, makes her want to find some pretty, willing creature and drag them to their knees. She turns on her heel instead, keeping her back to the camp, and pulls the sabre down from her pack. She tosses it in the air, a clever little trick she learned in Faerghus in the cold, dark evenings, and catches it one-handed. Someone whistles—She turns to find Nader smiling at her through the trees, but his friend says nothing, his face impassive and still. Emboldened, Tiana raises the sword and kisses the flat of the blade, keeping her gaze fixed on his dark, expressionless eyes. He rocks back on his heels, brows raised, and Tiana’s laugh rings through the camp, low and warm with the heat of triumph.

There are two competitions that afternoon; A swimming contest, which Tiana graciously declines, and a dueling list. The duels are arranged in secret so no one is allowed to rig any bets, and Tiana applies under her first name alone. It gives her a little thrill, a flutter in her stomach at the thought of being nameless, rootless, and she spends the afternoon warming up, walking herself through a series of easy drills in the woods behind the camp. She thinks of that man with the emeralds, the scar along his jaw, the shape of his face under his trim beard, and considers taking _him_ here, under the canopy of pine needles, to put that stern mouth to use. She returns to the competition grounds with a flush in her cheeks and her hood over her head, and approaches the dueling lists with her sabre clutched in her hand.

“You’re in section C,” the man at the lists tells her, when he’s gone over the rules of the duel. “Stay put until we ring the bell to begin. If one of those Almyran dogs bloodies you, step back and we’ll escort them out.”

Tiana gives the man an arch look and sweeps past him, chin raised high. She passes Nader, who winks at her, and she stops at her assigned place to find the man with the emeralds waiting there, scowling.

“What?” she says in Almyran. His brows lower, and she unpins her cloak. It falls to her feet, as well as her netted cap, letting her reddish brown curls fall to her shoulders. “Well?”

“Your accent is terrible,” he says. He also holds a sabre, a lovely blade with rubies in the hilt. “But at least you learned how to speak like a civilized person.”

Tiana nearly steps back over her cloak. No. He couldn’t be. But there he is, that same boy with that ridiculous swagger and unchecked dominance, older and broader and more refined, honed like a weapon in his fine clothes and glimmering jewels. Tiana catches her breath.

“Malik?” she asks. 

He gives her a small, mocking bow, and the bell at the end of the dueling lists rings out.

Tiana lunges. Malik meets her with a clash of steel, not bothering to test her reach or strength like the other duelists tapping swords on either side. He slides his blade around hers, reaching for her, and Tiana sidesteps out of the way just enough for the blade to slide past her cheek. She twists her own sword, driving Malik back a step, and he grins.

“You’re better with a sword than a bow,” he says, and whirls towards her, a blur of green and gold. Tiana crouches low and brings her sword up to meet him.

“About that,” she says, in Fódlan. Damn. It’s hard to remember how to speak Almyran when she’s fighting. “I have—“ she lunges for his heart, and he beats her sword back with a wild grin. “Something to say. About that day.”

“Yes?” They lock hilts—A dangerous move, with Malik so much heavier than her, with more strength to his blows. He tries to bear down on her, and Tiana braces herself.

“It’s why I learned… Almyran,” she says. She slumps without warning, giving way beneath him, and slides to her back in the dust. Malik’s momentary confusion turns to outright shock as she yanks on his belt and sweeps his legs out from under him. Someone shouts beyond the lists, but Tiana is grinning as she rolls to her feet again. She steps on Malik’s chest, her sabre at his neck, and trails the point up and under his jaw. She lifts his chin to look at him properly, and her cheeks flush pink at the heat in his eyes.

“I can outshoot you with my eyes closed,” she says, at last. “You smug, inconsiderate _ass._ ”

Lying at her feet, her sword at his neck and dust billowing about them in drifting clouds, Malik breaks into a slow smile.

***

“And then,” Tiana says, as she wraps Laila up in a towel at the edge of the pool, “your granddaddy and I went to the woods and... read books together. All afternoon.”

Malik, who isn’t so much drying Aurora off so much as he’s holding her upside down while she giggles hysterically, huffs out a laugh.

“What kind of books?” Laila asks. Malik and Tiana exchange glances.

“Math,” she says.

“Poetry,” he says, at the same time.

“Poetry about math,” Tiana says. She drapes the towel over Laila’s shoulder and kisses her forehead. “Of course.”

***

Malik would not consider himself a fanciful man, at least, no more so than any other Almyran who has cut his teeth on the songs and stories of his homeland; slumberous dragons beneath cold springs, women crowned with stars shooting arrows into the night sky, a king who called the storms to his side in battle. Almyrans are gifted at spinning tales under the shade of oasis trees in the long hot summer, or around the fires of their feasts, the pounding rhythm of their dances meant to mimic batte and life and death and everything in between. Myths and legends abound, woven in the humid air of the desert and the pine-rich forests to the north, but the king must temper fancy with the harsher truths of what it means to wear the starry crown, to hold the country safe and eternal. 

Those truths aren’t about bow-wielding archers gifting sacred knowledge, or wyverns who breathe fire on command in battles that decide the fates of nations. They are practical considerations, important but far more mundane, and Malik, crown prince and soon to be crowned king in mere days, is as versed in these as he is in the stories spun like silk in his homeland. 

A future king is a man bound to the blessed land of Almyra, to its people, to its glorious future and its proud past. All actions have consequences, and his actions must always be those of the one chosen by the spirits and his noble blood to rule. A ruler is governed by the crown, not his heart. 

And yet, as Malik lies on the ground with the smirking girl -- no, a woman grown, now -- above him, a sword resting light against his neck and a smile of pure smug satisfaction on her face, he is not thinking like a king, but a man. And he _wants_ her, does not care one whit that she is from the land of his enemy, those pale-faced creatures they come here to meet in bloodless combat, if only to remind them of the strength that lies in wait beyond their pathetic borders. 

She steps back and he gets to his feet, studies her. He has not forgotten her or her pine-needle eyes, hair that now makes him think of blood spilling around her small face, the impudence and dominance etched in the set of her shoulders, tilt of her chin. He bares his teeth at her and inclines his head, the only token he will grant her victory. “I did not know your people had the cleverness to fight dirty.” 

“Most of them don’t,” she says, imperious as a queen. “But I’m not most people.” 

He steps toward her, meets her gaze, waits to see if she will lower hers and simper like the others do, here. These barbarians don’t know he is the future king; and this is, for him, the last time he will be permitted to cross over and take part in the games. Nader, last night around the fire, had relayed this might be the last year for the games themselves. Border skirmishes grow more common, bad blood and tensions ever on the rise. 

What these people have to be so proud about, so eager to defend, Malik does not know. But maybe she is one such thing. A flower blooming bright in a field of trampled weeds. 

She arches one brow at him, but does not cower. He reaches out a hand, gaze unwavering even though he wants to look his fill at her; breath coming quicker from her parted mouth, chest rising rapidly, her Almyran blade curled still in her hand. No, Malik is not a fanciful man but if he was, he would say he fell in love the moment he felt her sword at his neck, saw her smile in triumph down at the king she put on his back in the dust. 

Someone shouts behind him; the tournament master, perhaps. It’s the language of Fódlan, and he pays it no mind -- he hasn’t the time or inclination to learn the less-cultured tongue of the barbarians. But he also hears Nader, his cousin and blood-brother, laughing loudly in the background. 

The woman, Tiana, places her hand in his. Deceptively small, pale, but calloused as any warrior’s should be. He pulls her along, out of the tournament area and into the woods beside, and she is laughing and teasing him as he fits his hands around her waist, lifts her, and presses her back against the tree. He takes her mouth as ruthlessly as she took her victory, and she meets him with the same eager joy with which she met his blade. 

“Is this supposed to be my winner’s gift, then?” she asks, though it takes him perhaps a few moments to work out what she means; the words are right but the intonation is a bit off, and it does not help that his brain is muddled by lust and a desire to earn a victory in another sort of battle entirely. 

“I am, yes,” he says, and presses closer. She’s not wearing the cumbersome gowns he’s seen the women wear from afar; dressed up and adorned but denied their right to earn tribute. “You remember me, eh, little demon?” 

“I remember you. I learned your terrible language so I could - could tell you to your -- your face that you were a _brute_ \--” She has one hand on his shoulder, the other still curled around the hilt of her blade, but she shakes against him when he shoves a thigh between her legs. 

“Tell me, then,” he commands, and she reacts to his dominance by grabbing at his hair, pulling him close, and kissing him as fiercely as he’d kissed her. 

Malik leans in and kisses her neck, her skin soft and sweet for all that she is apparently neither. He shifts her easily so she’s straddling his thigh, and he murmurs, “You fell from a tree for me. A gift, yes?” 

She pulls his head back with a firm grip in his hair; his cock aches at the look she gives him. “I’m no gift, and I’m not a prize, either.” She moves against him, her smile wicked. “I won our duel, _Malik_ , so if there is a prize to be had…” she drops her hand, reaches boldly between his legs and rubs over his cock. “It’s _you_.” 

He laughs breathlessly, tilts his thigh _just so_ and says, “Then take it.” 

Her blade falls to the ground. If he were thinking as a king and as a man who was just bested by a slip of a girl, he would take it up and put both blades at her throat, show her how easily he could have her head if he wished. Instead, his blade joins hers on the ground and he holds her with his hands steady on her hips, drags her along the hard press of his thigh. 

She keeps one hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder, letting him hold her weight while he kisses her and seeks to give her what she wants. “I want you beneath me,” he says, against her pretty, gasping mouth. “Crying out your pleasure to the sky.” 

“I -- want _you_ beneath _me_ ,” she pants, grinding herself wantonly against him. “Crying out _yours_.” 

It would be easier, faster, if he unfastened her riding breeches and slid his hand down inside; but he doesn’t want it to end yet, wants to see her work for it as she did her victory in their match, wants to see her shiver and fall apart while riding his thigh. “Then I will take you to my tent, little demon, and --” 

There’s a rustle, a sound of footsteps and a voice shouting in that thrice-damned language he doesn’t speak. Her eyes go wide and she hisses into his hair, “Take me there _now_ ,” but as lust-addled as he is, Malik knows it’s less from wanting him to mount her and more that she wants to get away. 

Which, of course she does. These are her people, perhaps, come to take her back. “Your country is weak, I have known it, they cannot keep track of their warriors.” 

Her chin goes up and she smiles, he’s pleased her in some small way he doesn’t quite understand, and she kisses him with a sweetness their earlier rough passion was lacking. “Malik. I’m still owed my victory. I hear you Almyrans keep your words of intent.” 

He puzzles over that for a moment, then simply growls, “Hold on,” and keeps his hold on her, bending down to pick up her sword and his own, keeping her pressed against him. She buries her face in his neck and laughs, says something he doesn’t quite catch about his wyvern riding and his thighs, and holds on as he turns and simply strides away from the approaching retainers with his prize in his arms. 

For that is what she is, regardless of what she says. If these Fódlaners are not strong enough to hold her, well, that is their fault. Malik will not make the same mistake. 

He takes her deeper into the woods, finds another tree and presses her against it again. Their swords fall to the ground; he has a moment to see them lying there on the wild dry grass, the light of the sun filtering through the canopy glinting off the crossed blades. It makes them look as if they are burning. An omen, perhaps. But he hasn’t much thought for that, not with her laughing in breathless delight and pushing her fingers into his hair, nipping at his lower lip, trying to get his thigh back between her legs. 

“Ask me for it, little demon,” Malik says. 

“No,” she huffs, and uses her strength to almost climb him, uncaring of the rough tree bark at her back, kicking out until she has him where she wants him. 

He puts a hand on her hip and one on the tree, shifts his weight forward and gets his thigh where she wants it. She makes a needy sound that thrills him to his core, makes him ache even harder than before as she starts to rub herself against him. She’s speaking in her language, and he doesn’t mind; the words might not make sense but he knows what she wants. He knows. 

He speaks to her in Almyran, mouth against her ear. “Take your pleasure of me, little demon. Take what you won.” 

“Ah,” she moans, and when she bares her throat he is so overcome he bites her on her shoulder, using every last bit of control not to break skin and mark her as _his_. “Yes, that’s -- ah.” Her words fall apart into moans and stuttering gasps, and her muscles tense and flex as she rubs herself to a shuddering climax against him. It leaves her sweat-damp and shaking, and he smooths back her tousled hair and smiles in pleasure at her dazed expression. 

He touches the spot on her neck, red from his teeth still even if he didn’t break skin. “Now we’re even.” 

“Says you,” she huffs, shoving at his shoulder. But she smiles at him, like the sun rising, and he is as helpless to resist her as his ancestors were, in those myths where they took gifts from strange women who fell from the sky. 

There’s a gentle sound from above, a rustle and then -- it starts to rain. Softly at first, barely a drizzle until the wind picks up and the water rushes through the leaves, soaking them both. Malik grabs her under her strong thighs, holding her up as he slots himself between her legs and presses the bulge of his cock against her. 

He moves against her and she runs her hands over his back, up into his hair, meeting every push of his hips with her own. She comes again, before he does, crying out in the rain and pulling his hair so hard it makes his eyes water. Of all the people he’s bedded -- noble submissives, comrades-in-arms, palace courtesans -- none have ever wound him up so easily or made him come so hard, in his pants like some unblooded, untried youth instead of a king days from being crowned. 

She’s shivering with something other than passion when he finally catches his breath, lifting his head to stare at her. 

“They’ll be looking for me,” she says, at length. 

Of course. Only a fool wouldn't. “Let them look,” he says. 

She raises one hand to brush her rain-soaked hair from her face. Wet, it is the color of blood. “If they find me, they’ll try and take me back.” 

Malik takes her face in his hands. He bares his teeth in an expression too vicious to be a smile, and his voice is imbued with thousands of years of dominance, the utter certainty of a man who’s always known he’s born to rule. “Let them try.”


	3. Chapter 3

Felix Fraldarius sits with his back to the edge of a large stone fountain near the stables, legs crossed, while his two young daughters braid flowers in his hair.

The gardens of Almyra are thriving in these first few weeks of the rainy season, casting blooms of color over the rooftops and window boxes of the city, and the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle lies heavy in the air. Felix, Laila, and Aurora spent most of the morning walking the public gardens a few streets from the palace, and even if he isn’t _entirely_ sure if picking flowers is allowed, he figures it probably isn’t going to hurt. So he sits there, a man raised for battle and carved by war, letting his daughters stick massive yellow blossoms and crowns of white clover on his brow. 

“Mama says.” Aurora sticks a purple flower behind his ear. “Mama says, Mama says when kittens are born, they don’t know how to, to open their eyes.”

“Really?” Felix knows so much more about kittens now than he ever has in his entire life.

“And um. And when I’m big I’m gonna have, um, five whole cats and they’ll be named… Peanut. And Cake. And Chocolate. And—“

“You have a funny scar, Papa,” Laila says, barreling over Aurora, who keeps listing kitten names regardless. “On your neck, above your pretty wedding ring.”

“What’s that?” Felix twists around, dislodging a daisy, and Laila touches the back of her neck.

“It’s a scar,” she says.

“Yes, I got it in battle,” Felix says. He doesn’t see the point in hiding the truth from the girls—He doesn’t give them the _details,_ of course, but it’s a simple fact, and there’s no use lying about it. “I meant. You said wedding ring?”

“Yes,” Laila says, like this should be obvious. “I asked Grandma why you wear it all the time, and she says it’s like a wedding ring.”

“And I’ll name the dog Cactus,” Aurora says, triumphantly.

“That’s.” Felix just resists running his fingers through his hair. “That’s right, sweetheart. And Cactus is a nice name, Aurora. Very. Descriptive.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Aurora says. She fixes the flower crown and gives Felix an appraising once-over. “You look pretty, Papa.”

“Thank you, little star,” Felix says, kissing her on the forehead. “That’s my goal in life, these days.”

“I’m going to be pretty, too,” Laila says. Felix stands and takes one of her hands, and Aurora rushes over to take the other. “And smart. And beautiful. And I’ll have a million billion parrots.”

“Ooh,” Aurora says. “Yes.”

“You can have some,” Laila says to her, magnanimously, “Cos I like you.” Then, because Felix doesn’t need to keep his hearing into middle age, really, she chooses to let out an ear-splitting shriek, pitched so high that it can mean one of two things: She’s finally fulfilling her and Aurora’s fervent dream of turning into a dragon, or her grandparents are within a fifty-meter radius.

“MALIK,” Aurora shouts.

Well, there’s _that_ question answered.

“Girls, no running in the—girls—“ He groans as they both take off towards their grandfather, who is walking beside one of Claude’s half-brothers, Tariq. Tariq is only a few years younger than Claude, stunning in his dark robes of office, and he gives Felix the barest nod of greeting as the girls descend. He’s a quiet man; subdued, perhaps, after the loss of his arm and the subsequent realization that Claude’s not about to abdicate any time soon, but he loves the girls and is a fair hand with the blade, and that’s two points in his favor as far as Felix is concerned. He crouches on his heels to speak to Aurora, who hands him one of her flowers, and he gravely tucks it into his curly black hair.

“Now you’re pretty,” Aurora says.

“Yes,” Tariq says. His eyes narrow in a smile. “Very much so.”

“Fox-cub,” Lord Malik says, approaching Felix with Laila in one arm. “You have become a garden, I see.”

“Yes, my lord,” Felix says. “So it would seem.”

Malik regards him a moment. Behind him, Tariq meets Felix’s gaze and taps a finger on the cobbles, but despite the growing disapproval in Malik’s eyes, Felix doesn’t quite see the point, now. He recalls, dimly, submissives kneeling when Lambert came in the door—but it’s hard, even now, for Felix to submit easily. It’s as though there’s a knot in the works, tying up the current, and Felix has to drag himself through it every time.

“We will bring the girls to my heart,” Malik says, and Laila grins—He always calls Salma his heart, it’s a sweet nickname for a man whose dominance is like the core of a lightning strike. “She wants to see them. Laila, go to Uncle Tariq.”

“Do you girls want to see the turtle in the fish pond?” Tariq asks, and both girls squeal excitedly, hopping after him like a pair of rabbits. That leaves Felix with Lord Malik, frozen in place, trapped in the knot.

“This is a problem,” Malik says, simply. Felix looks down, tries to make his knees bend the way he wants them to, and Malik clicks his tongue. “No. Stand.” He walks around Felix, slowly, a shark circling in the still waters. “Your knees. Do they hurt?”

“When I—my lord, I don’t—“

“Speak clearly,” Malik orders, sharply, and Felix _does_ nearly kneel at that, but Malik snaps out, “Stand, Fox-cub,” and he goes rigid. “Is there weakness in your knees?”

“No, my lord,” Felix says.

“Someone disrespects you,” Malik says, in a low voice that makes the hairs prickle on Felix’s arms. “They are punished. You are Khalid’s. Khalid is Almyra. So, too, am I. The people, they see that. There are rules, for those who live here, who love Almyra as we do. Do you dislike these rules?”

“No, si—“ Felix flushes red. “No, Lord Malik.” He knows why it’s done. It would be as much a slap in the face to not respect it here as it would be to take off someone else’s collar in Faerghus. But he forgets, and then the time has passed, and Felix is proud and stubborn and perhaps enough of a masochist at heart that he always has to test how far he can push a rule until it breaks.

“ _Stand,_ ” Malik says, again, and Felix doesn’t even know his legs are buckling until he straightens again. “You are not a bad submissive. Khalid, he is better with you here. But you are... a fight,” Malik says. “A fight to who?”

“Myself,” Felix says, honestly. “Mostly. Sir.” Shit. “My lord.” Malik watches him for another minute, brows raised, until Felix grits out, “My lord. May I. May I kneel.”

“Yes.” Felix sinks to his knees, and Malik nods. “You will fight yourself on your own time, Fox-cub. I will have Khalid come to you. Be good. Do not move until he comes.”

Felix furrows his brows, uncertain if Lord Malik can even give that kind of order, but the relief of being on his knees is so great that it almost calms him. He waits, even after Malik has towed the girls off to their grandmom, even when servants walk around him, when his breath comes slow and even. He waits until Claude comes half running towards him, frowning slightly, and flings his hands in the air.

“Really, Dad? Really?” Claude loops an arm in Felix’s and hauls him to his feet. “I’m sorry, Felix, he’s a menace. He probably thought he was doing you a favor.”

“Probably was,” Felix says with a shrug.

“Saints, of course you’d agree with him.” Claude kisses him on the cheek and starts tugging him towards a stairwell. Then he stops, swings Felix around, and stares at him. “Why are there flowers in your hair, Felix?”

“We have two children who would braid _fire_ if they had the chance,” Felix drawls, and Claude smiles wryly.

“Point taken,” he says, and, like Aurora, readjusts the flower crown. “Well, it suits you, anyways.”

Felix smiles. “So I’ve been told. The girls are with Tariq and Salma, by the way, I’m sure he told you.”

“Yeah, they’ll come back rolling,” Claude says. “Tariq’s not having kids until he stops sneaking out with that actor and admits they’re a thing, and Zahir’s, you know. Zahir. Unless his dissertation manifests into a human form when we’re not looking, he’s not about to start a family. So Salma’s trying to get three times the grandma-ing in at once.”

“Wait,” Felix says, as Claude plucks a flower from his hair and puts it behind his own ear. “An actor? With Tariq? He doesn’t seem the kind of man who… he’s so quiet, most of the time.”

Claude grins. “I’m not supposed to know. Tariq’s been sneaking out with the lead singer of the Almyran Royal Opera for the past five years. He’s cute. Like, twenty years older than Tariq and built like a bear, but cute.”

Felix tries to consider this, takes a hard left turn at the thought of the trim, respectable Tariq with a man the size of a bear, and backs up to safety. “That’s… nice.”

“Maybe he’ll help him get that stick out of his ass,” Claude says. “Miracles happen.” He swings open the door to their rooms, which have been completely moved around to fit Hilda’s exacting and ever-shifting standards. Pillows are everywhere, there are water-powered fans to stir the air, and she’s lounging in a thin pink chemise that’s rucked up to her thighs. She whimpers when Claude comes in, pointedly, and Claude sighs.

“She wants to cuddle,” Marianne says, from where she’s putting away a set of glasses. “But she doesn’t want anyone to touch her.” Claude gives Felix a look—There’s more than a touch of exasperation in Marianne’s tone—and Hilda flops dramatically on the pillows.

“No,” she says. “I want someone to cuddle Marianne _for_ me. Marianne, we should share. Laila and Aurora are so close, and I’m not doing this for another four years at _least._ ”

“Oh,” Marianne says, her hands on the tea cabinet doors. “You mean… I, I wouldn’t _mind_ having another. Should we talk to Dimitri?”

“He’d spoil them,” Felix says. “Completely. He sent a letter last week for Laila and Aurora’s dress sizes, remember? I’d bet my title that he’s commissioning Mercedes for matching knitted sweaters.” 

Marianne isn’t exactly the easiest person to read, in Felix’s experience, but everyone knows that she’s been sighing over Hilda ever since they got the news, and Claude caught her idly drafting a list of names a week before. She _loves_ their children. When Aurora was born, she’d cried so hard at the thought of Aurora having to leave for Fodlan to rule one day that Dimitri almost abdicated. Dimitri, who wouldn’t even abdicate for _Claude._

Claude walks over to Marianne, who sinks to her knees so gracefully that she may as well be a figure in one of the classic portraits hanging on the walls in Faerghus, and touches her cheek.

“Would you like another?” He asks, softly.

“Yes,” Marianne says.

Felix dimly wishes what little sleep he can manage a fond farewell.

“There you go, then,” Hilda says, looking at Claude. “Go on and give her one.”

***

Of _course_ Hilda thinks it’s that easy. 

Claude has fucked Marianne before, but not often. The first time was shortly after they came to Almyra, Claude and Hilda newly married and Marianne slipping back into some old habits, old thoughts that she was a burden, unwanted. When Hilda hadn’t been able to settle her completely, they’d had her join them in bed. Hilda kissed her neck, stroked her hair while Claude took her, gently, smiling and making her come until she was sweaty and messy and under, resting quiet between them. 

There’d been another time or two over the years -- once thanks to a long night in the hunting lodge and some whiskey -- but for the most part, Marianne prefers Hilda’s strap and Claude’s dirty mouth talking low in her ear. And then of course, there was Marianne agreeing to bear Dimitri’s heir, which was both adorable and sort of hilarious given how polite Dimitri was and how they were both service submissives determined to make each other comfortable. 

“Is this a good time?” Claude asks, now, stroking her cheek. He’s the king. He’s supposed to take care of his family, give them what they want. He’s always thought Marianne was beautiful, and it isn’t as if going to bed with her is a hardship. 

Marianne’s smile is a little wicked. “I’m not busy at the moment, if you’re asking.” 

Claude chuckles and shakes his head. “That’s not -- I mean. Is it a good time for conceiving? I wouldn’t want to. Um.” He goes all sheepish, hands behind his head. A king he might be, but he’s also still sort of a dork. As Hilda reminds him, often. “Bother you? With my, uh. Attentions.” 

“Oh, Saints,” says Felix. “I thought it was just Dimitri.” 

“I know, right?” Hilda chuckles. “Felix, come here. No, don’t just come _over_ here, bring me some _water_. This baby makes me _so_ much crankier than my sweet Laila. Must take after _you_ , Claude.” 

Claude has to hold back a laugh -- Hilda was plenty cranky with Laila, during the last few months -- but he’s smart enough not to say that. Felix, who had been heading in her direction at her sharply-spoken command, stops immediately and goes to get her water, and then soaks a cool cloth and brings them back over. 

“Good boy, oh, thank you,” Hilda almost moans, as Felix wordlessly presses the cloth to her face and hands over the water. 

“I would like to have another child. I miss my dear sweet Aurora all the time,” Marianne says, and smiles up at Claude. “And yes, if you are asking me if the timing is appropriate, it is.” 

Marianne would know, given her familiarity with the breeding cycle of literally everything. 

“Bring her over here, do it so I can watch,” Hilda demands. “And Felix can get me off. Unless he’s got a _problem_ with that,” she says, ominous as a summer storm. 

Felix stares at her, splayed out like a queen and half-dressed, shapely legs bare and glistening, breasts full and pressing against the silk of her top. _Claude_ is half-hard just looking at her, and with the extra benefit of Hilda’s inability to temper her natural dominance and fondness for being a bit bossy with it...Claude doesn’t think Felix will have anything close to a problem, doing what she wants. 

“I - no,” Felix says. “No problem.” 

“Wise man,” says Claude, and turns to Marianne. He holds out a hand. “Do you want to ditch the audience, though? They can use their imagination.” He doesn’t think she’ll mind, though. Mari doesn’t mind showing off for Hilda. In fact, Claude has a sneaking suspicion she’s a bit of an exhibitionist. 

Marianne takes his hand and giggles softly, letting Claude pull her to her feet. “I don’t mind. If you want them to watch, your majesty, they can watch.” 

“Mari, if we’re gonna fuck, you can leave off the title. Unless you’re into that.” He wiggles his eyebrows and pulls her in for a kiss. 

“Sometimes I don’t get how you ended up with so many hot people who love you,” says Hilda. “And by _you_ I mean _Claude_ , obviously. Everyone loves Marianne.” There’s a vaguely threatening note to her voice, like she’s only just keeping herself from adding _at least, they better_ to the end of that sentence. 

Claude knows how to make Marianne comfortable by now, which is to make sure he gives her a lot of praise and set her tasks to fulfill, so he says, “Pretty thing, why don’t you take these clothes off me and we’ll get in bed? Felix, do whatever my wife tells you.” 

“Is there ever another option,” Felix says, and Hilda’s laugh is low and warm and just a little wicked in a way that makes Claude’s blood heat. 

But he gives all his attention to Marianne, who attends to stripping him with efficient and careful hands. When he’s naked, he motions for her to turn around and carefully removes the loose, easy clothing she’s wearing so she’s naked save her collar. Then he turns her around and smiles at her, hands on her shoulders. “You’re so pretty. Such a good girl.” 

She blushes and ducks her head. 

“Would you take your hair down, for me?” 

She nods, reaching up and carefully removing the pins. Claude waits until she’s done and leans in to kiss her brow. “Go put those away and come join me on the bed.” He’s learned how to dom a service sub over the years, from watching Hilda and of course, from Dimitri. 

Who will, he’s sure, be sad that he missed this. “You’ll have to tell Dima all about our tryst,” he tells Marianne, when she returns. “You can blush, he’ll blush, it’ll be adorable.” 

“Claude,” Hilda laughs. “You’re so bad.” 

“You love it.” He smiles and holds his hand out, and Marianne places hers in his and giggles again when Claude bows and kisses it like they’re going to dance...then sweeps her up into his arms and carries her to the bed, where he deposits her next to Hilda on the silk sheets. Hilda, who’s pulled off her chemise and has her hands buried in Felix’s hair, pulls Felix closer while he presses kisses to her sweet inner thighs. 

Claude climbs on Marianne’s other side, and they smile at each other. “Do you remember the last time we did this?” 

“Hilda’s birthday,” Marianne answers. “She, ah. Wanted me to sit on your face while she took me with the strap.” 

“That was hot,” Claude says, momentarily distracted by the memory before he kisses her again. Marianne is beautiful and responsive, so eager to please that it lights up all of Claude’s dominant instincts in a different way than Dimitri and Felix. 

One thing Marianne likes is praise, and Claude definitely likes to give her that. “You’re so good for us, Mari. Sweet, pretty girl. So good for my star, so lovely.” He croons to her in Almyran as he pets her, kisses her neck, turns her head to look over at Hilda. “Look how gorgeous our Hilda is when she’s feeling good.” 

“Oh,” Marianne moans, her fair skin flushing prettily, watching Hilda as she arches and comes against Felix’s face with a long, drown out, filthy moan. “She comes so quickly when she’s pregnant, did you notice?” 

“I definitely noticed,” Claude says, grinning, kissing Marianne’s neck. 

“Me, too,” Felix gasps, sucking in air as he pulls back to catch his breath. 

“You’re welcome,” Hilda gasps, patting him and turning her head. She beams. “Oh, look at you two. Claude, treat her right, do all the things she likes. Suck on her nipples, don’t bite, but use your teeth a little. And ohh, when you fuck her, you should --” 

“Do it like she wants?” Claude interrupts, gently, stroking over Marianne’s breasts. 

“Duh. But, like. She likes it on her back, I just get kinda lazy and --” 

“Felix, get my wife off again,” Claude instructs, and Felix huffs but goes back to work, and Hilda’s bossy instructions turn into moans, so. 

Marianne watches them while Claude sucks her nipples, but she isn’t one for simply taking pleasure like Hilda and he feels her hand tentatively stroke through his hair while he rouses her. “You can touch me, sweet girl, you know that, right?” 

“I, yes of course,” Marianne says, and Claude looks up to find her smiling down at him. “I do think you’re very handsome, your ma--Khalid.” 

“Like he -- mm, Felix, use your tongue, come _on_ \-- needs the ego boost,” Hilda gasps. 

“I don’t think you’re in a position to talk,” Claude says, aiming a smirk at her, kissing down Marianne’s stomach. Hilda raises one hand, pushes her long pink hair out of her face and lazily flips him off. 

Claude grins and kisses Marianne stomach, and then as he settles between her legs he says, “Marianne, see if I can get you off before Felix gets Hilda off,” and Hilda gasps out, _too late_ and Claude laughs warm into the pale blue hair between Marianne’s thighs. 

He’s vaguely aware of Hilda praising Mari as he gets her off, and she tastes sweet, different than Hilda but he does love doing this. He likes how Marianne grabs his hair then gentles her hand, as if she’s afraid to grab and pull too hard when honestly, Claude wouldn’t mind. 

He moves up and lies at Marianne’s side, drawing her in to kiss her and tell her how good it felt to make her come while he guides her hand to his cock. She likes to be led, likes to be controlled and told what to do in bed, how to please, and when her stroking hand has him worked up enough he gently pushes her down and eases onto his back. 

Claude’s a lucky man, and when his gorgeous Felix isn’t there to take his cock down his throat or when Dimitri isn’t there to spend hours on his knees ignoring his own needs for Claude’s pleasure, he has Hilda teasing him and sucking him off with the same single-minded skill she once wielded her axe. Marianne doesn’t often do this for him, but there’s a thrill in that, too; she licks him like he’s a sweet, her small hands touching his thighs, his stomach, like she’s trying to gentle him. Claude’s cock grows harder in her mouth until he tugs at her hair and says, “That’s so good, pretty girl, but if you don’t stop I’m going to come in your sweet mouth.” 

“Mmm, I love it when you talk dirty to Mari,” Hilda says, next to him, humping herself against Felix’s face again. “She’s so good with her tongue, isn’t she? Look how hard you are, Claude. Good job, baby girl.” 

“Thank you,” Marianne says, breathless, tossing her hair. She looks good disheveled and proud of herself. She strokes Claude’s cock with her hand, and looks her fill at him in a way she doesn’t, often. “I like watching you in the bath,” she says, and it’s so charming that she’s been here for _literal years_ and it’s the first time she’s ever mentioned this. “You look very nice, when you’re wet. Your muscles are, ah. Very pleasing to look at. I like when I walk in, sometimes, and you’re taking Hilda. You have, um. A cute butt.” She beams at him. 

“I absolutely know why Hilda fell madly in love with you,” Claude says, charmed and aroused at once. 

“You just made Khalid blush,” Hilda giggles, wildly. “Felix, look.” 

“Dimitri has a book, at home,” Felix says, in a rough voice, nonsensical. His mouth is shiny and wet, and he’s clearly working up a sweat between Hilda’s thighs. “Naughty stories. People having sex in - in groups. No one says things like that.” 

“It’s probably fake, then,” says Hilda, pulling at Felix’s hair. “Anyway, no one asked for your reading recommendations. Back to work.” 

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ book,” Felix grouses, and then, “Mmph.” 

“How do you want me to take you?” Claude asks, though predictably, Marianne’s answer is _however you want me_. He puts her on her back and settles on top of her, kissing her and stroking between her legs, where she’s wet and eager. “Pretty thing. I’ll make you feel good, and you’re going to feel so good around my cock, aren’t you? So wet, did I get you all excited for me, sweetheart?” 

“Y-yes,” she gasps, curling her legs around his hips as he presses in. “Does it -- feel good, your -- Cla--Khalid?” 

He chuckles and starts fucking her, slow and hard, kissing at her neck. “So good, mmm, we should do this more often. You’re such a good girl, we love you so much, you know that, don’t you? You make us so happy --” 

Marianne gasps and writhes, fingers curling sweetly into his shoulders. “I -- yes, I -- I know, I -- oh --” 

“Dirty talk, Claude,” Hilda bosses. “Not sweet talk.” 

“She’s so bossy,” Claude says, in Marianne’s ear. “Do you want to hear how hard I am for you? You can feel it, can’t you? Want me to talk all filthy?” He nips at her ear. “Tell you how wet you are for me, how good your cunt feels around me?” 

“Oh, that’s -- yes, thank you,” Marianne gasps, arching up. 

“Want you to come for me, sweet girl. You’re so pretty when you do, it feels so good --” Claude puts his hand between her legs, and it only takes a few moments before she tightens around him and makes him groan in pleasure, fucking her through her orgasm while he nears his own peak. 

“Make me come for you, sweet girl,” he pants, and she tightens her legs around him and digs her nails in his shoulders, her cunt tightening as she lifts her hips. “That’s it, you know how to get me off, yeah?” 

“Tell him he has an amazing cock,” Hilda drawls, next to them. 

“Tell him how he’s smarter than other people,” Felix adds. 

There is a sound that Claude suspects is his wife and his submissive _high-fiving_. 

“You are very smart, Khalid,” Marianne says, breathless. “And I. Your cock. It is very - very nice. I like it, ah. Please, I want you to. Feel good. To come.” 

“You’re making him feel _so_ good, baby,” Hilda croons. “I can tell.” 

Claude pulls on her collar and kisses her hotly as he comes; he’s careful not to make it hurt but he wants her to at least be under when he’s finished. When it’s over he stays buried to the hilt inside of her, lightly kissing and sucking at her neck before he pulls out, gently. 

Felix is lying on his stomach, watching. Hilda is winding Felix’s hair in between her fingers, alternately pulling and braiding it, also watching. 

Claude looks at Marianne. She smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “That felt good. I do want a -- a child, but I liked it, even if I don’t -- even if we have to do it again.” 

“Well,” Claude says, wheezing a bit of a laugh. “I guess that’s something.” 

***

Laila and Aurora’s little brother is born in the middle of the night. It’s terribly inconvenient, really. Everything about him is. Aurora, who spent the last few weeks painstakingly following the instructions Aunt Mercie left for a baby blanket—with the help of Grandmom Salma, who held the needles while Aurora held the yarn—feels a little let down, really. Amir’s so _small_ and red and angry, with little shaking fists and a howling voice that keeps everyone up past bedtime, and he’s _sick,_ too, always coughing and hiccuping. Grandmom has to make Aurora’s Mom drink gross tea and put healing drops on his throat, and Aurora keeps jumping up every time he makes a noise in the crib, which makes Mom mutter and Dad say things like, “One in ten babies get this, Rory, go to sleep.” 

And even though the coughing is getting better, everyone still fusses over Amir all the time, even Laila, and Aurora feels smaller and smaller until, one day, she bursts into tears when Uncle Tariq comes by with _another_ gift for Amir and just a pat on the head for Aurora.

Then everyone _looks_ at her, which is _worse,_ and Uncle Tariq says, “Oh,” all soft.

“Aurora,” he says, bending down on his knees. “Do you want to feed the wyrms with me?”

“No,” Aurora sobs, even though she does, really.

“I think we should,” Tariq says. Dad looks at him all funny, and Mom, who is holding Amir, shrugs. “I bet they miss you.”

They probably do. Aurora named most of them a few months ago, and she and Mama always go up and feed them bits of meat and sometimes strawberry, which is their favorite. So Aurora goes with Tariq, even though she can’t hold his hand because he only has one and he needs that for the rail on the stairs. They climb slowly, one step at a time, while Aurora sniffles and hiccups and tries to blink tears out of her eyes.

“I felt a lot like you when Uncle Zahir was born, you know,” Uncle Tariq says, when they stop on the top of the stairs to rest. Aurora presses up against his side, and he pets her hair. “I was the baby, and then suddenly I wasn’t. It’s a shock.”

“I _like_ being a big kid,” Aurora says.

“So do I. But it still hurts.” He looks down at Aurora, then, and his eyes are almost… sad. Like he wants to cry, but he can’t.

“Are you okay?” Aurora asks. “Do you miss your boyfriend?”

Uncle Tariq chokes. He coughs into his fist, goes dark red, and swoops back his hair. “What’s that?”

“Dad says you have a boyfriend,” Aurora says. “I heard him talking to Daddy about it. But he’s never here. Does he live in Fodlan?” That’s the only reason she can think of for someone not to be here, in the palace. Especially if it’s someone who likes Uncle Tariq the way Daddy likes Dad or Papa.

“No, he’s.” Uncle Tariq closes his eyes. “No, I don’t. I’ll let you see him,” he says, finally. “Soon. But he isn’t why I’m sad.”

“Oh. Is he pretty?”

Uncle Tariq makes a funny groaning sound. “I was thinking about Amir,” he says. “You know, Laila’s going to be Queen one day. And you will, too, of Fodlan. But what will Amir rule?”

Aurora thinks about it. “Morfis,” she says.

“No, Morfis has their own rulers. Amir won’t rule anything. You two will be queens, and that means you’ll be getting a lot of attention. And it might make Amir feel the way you feel right now. Like no one cares about him.”

“But they do,” Aurora says.

“He won’t think so, sometimes.” Uncle Tariq looks down the stairs, and touches the shoulder where his arm used to be. “And you don’t want Amir to feel like that, do you?” Aurora shakes her head. It feels _awful._ “So be kind to him, Aurora. Make sure he doesn’t feel left behind, because he will, if people don’t pay attention. Be a good sister to him.”

“Like you and Dad,” Aurora says.

Uncle Tariq is silent for a long, long time.

“Lets go feed your wyrms, dragonlet,” he says, at last. 

There aren’t many wyrms out yet—they like to sleep during the day, when the sun beats hot on the stone of the palace—but Uncle Tariq does help Aurora onto the first step of the railing so she can feed a grape to Sunshine, a red wyrm with little tickly whiskers. Sunshine whistles and clicks, and when Tariq holds out his hand, Sunshine twines around it before drifting back to their hiding place.

“Do you feel any better?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Aurora hops down from the railing. “You’re really smart, Uncle Tariq.”

He smiles slightly, the way Dad does sometimes. “I try.”

“I love you,” she says, because Daddy always says it’s important to say it when you feel it, and hugs him around the legs. Uncle Tariq puts his hand on her hair.

“Thank you, Aurora,” Uncle Tariq says. ”I love you, too.”

When Aurora and Uncle Tariq come back, Aurora is hanging off of Uncle Tariq’s hand, and Mom has finally put Amir to bed. Laila, who is practicing her letters in the nursery, jumps up when they come in and goes barreling into Aurora.

“Feel better right now,” Laila says, the way she always does when Aurora’s upset or Mama’s sick from carrying her baby.

“I’m better!” Aurora says. “Promise!”

“Good, because if you cry, I’ll cry, and I hate crying,” Laila says. Uncle Tariq looks down on them strangely, like he doesn’t know what to say, and he and Dad glance at each other.

“Tariq,” Dad says.

“Khalid,” says Uncle Tariq.

“Mother’s in the nursery,” Dad says, after a moment of silence in which Laila and Aurora go rolling into a pile of stuffed animals. “If you’d like to see her.”

Uncle Tariq opens his mouth.

“Stay, Uncle Tariq,” Laila says. “Mama’s not feeling good cause the baby’s fat and she needs to lie down, and I wanna show you my letters.”

“Well,” Uncle Tariq says, still looking at Dad out of the corner of his eye. “It seems I have no choice.”

“You don’t,” Laila says.

Before Aurora follows them in, she hops over to Amir’s crib and peers inside. He’s swaddled in a green cloth with gold stars on it, and he doesn’t look as red and angry like this, with his eyes closed and his hands tucked up in the blanket.

“Hey,” Aurora says. “I know you’re not gonna be queen of anything, and that’s ok. You can be queen of Fodlan if you want to, sometimes, when I’m bored. And if you feel sad, I’ll take you to see the kittens or the wyverns until you’re not sad anymore. And I’ll learn how to fight from Papa, so if someone _makes_ you sad, I’ll hurt them back. Okay?”

Amir says nothing, but that’s fine. Babies probably don’t talk until they’re a few weeks old. They’re not like kittens, who can meow right away. Aurora hops back down, and blinks when she sees Uncle Tariq and Dad staring at each other. She doesn’t think they look sad, really. Maybe it’s something else. Oh! That’s it. Aurora jumps back up to the crib and looks down.

“And I love you,” she says. Dad makes a funny sound, and Uncle Tariq snorts, and then they’re both laughing, just standing across the room and laughing and laughing until tears come out of Uncle Tariq’s eyes and Grandma comes over to see what all the trouble is.

Mama is sitting on the reading chair in the nursery when they come in, and her belly is so round that Aurora can’t believe the baby hasn’t decided to come out yet. It’s really kind of rude of them, whoever they are, because Mama has to stay in bed sometimes and Aurora and Laila have to run back and forth to tell her how the birds and cats and horses are doing. The stablehands and servants in the palace are always giving them little presents they’ve made for Mama, like charms that are supposed to make the baby come without trouble, and Mama has graciously hung them from the door to the nursery so they jingle whenever Daddy walks into them. 

The charms jingle for Uncle Tariq, too, who is almost as tall as Daddy, and he smiles at Mama and bows to Grandma, who puts a hand on his cheek and kisses his forehead.

“Let me show you my letters,” Laila says, and runs over to grab the paper she’s been writing on. Aurora wants to sit on Mama’s lap, but she can’t anymore, so she drags over a pillow and sits next to her instead. Mama twists her hair in her fingers and smiles down at her fondly, and Aurora sighs.

“We’re doing better, then, dear heart?” Mama asks.

“Yeah. I fed Sunshine.” Aurora sighs again. “Sometimes I wish I was a wyvern.”

“Or a dragon,” Laila says. She always wants to be a dragon.

“They say some people can become them,” Grandma says, sitting in a chair by the bunk beds. “Only in stories, though. There’s the one about a wyvern that went wild, and their rider saw there was a gap in their scales, so they pulled and pulled and they found a cursed prince inside, waiting for his true love to find him. They’re performing a play about it at the opera house in a few months, I believe—Malik and I should take you girls to see it—“

“It’s probably not that good,” Uncle Tariq says, quickly. “You should save your tickets.” Grandma raises her brow.

“Well, you would know, Tariq. You’re always at the opera these days.”

Uncle Tariq goes ashen, and Mama says, in a soft but firm voice, “We have a story like that in Fodlan, as well. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, please,” Aurora says. Laila abandons her sheet of letters and goes stumbling over to sit with Aurora, and Tariq gives Mama a grateful look. Maybe he wants to hear a story, too, she thinks. He leans against the wall, his one arm tucked around his waist, and watches them as Mama starts to speak.

***

Once upon a time, in the cold wastes between Fhirdiad and Fraldarius, there lived a young girl in a wizard’s tower. The wizard who owned the tower was as cold and cruel and lifeless as the snow that surrounded him in all directions, and he’d stolen the girl from her family long ago in the hopes of having a servant to stoke the fires and do the cooking and clean the floors. 

But the girl, who was named Goss after the gossamer gown she’d been wearing on the night she was stolen, had no intention of living the rest of her life as a servant to a wizard with no love for anything but the power he sought to gain. So every night, when the wizard was asleep and the world was dark, she went out and walked just a little farther from the tower, bracing herself against the bitter wind.

It was there that she first saw the swans.

Now, swans in Faerghus usually come from eggs, like all birds do, but these swans were special. They were the swans of winter, spirits made of snow and ice that fly across Fodlan every year, draping a cloak of clouds and snow over the sky. They are born on the coldest night of Autumn, in the dark of a moonless sky, and it was that night that Goss looked up and saw the snow before her rise into the shape of seven enormous swans.

They lifted their long necks and ruffled their icy feathers, and Goss was so alarmed that she let out a great cry of alarm. One of them, the smallest swan, looked down at her and shivered snow off their feathers.

“Greetings, child,” they said. “It is rare for a human to see the birth of winter. You must carry great magic in your bones.”

“I don’t,” Goss said, “or I would have flown from this place long ago.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The swan fixed her with an eye made of black ice. “I can see it in you, child. You are not always weak and cold as you are when you are made. Every year, we swans remake ourselves. You humans can, as well, but you have forgotten the art.”

“But how is it done?” Goss asked. “How can we do something we’ve forgotten?”

“How do you breathe?” The swan said. “It’s the same. Make yourself into what you want to be, and your magic will make it real.”

And then the swan flew off, riding the high winds with their siblings, dragging the snows of winter with them.

Goss thought of this for a long, long moment. Then she looked down at the snow. There was still so much of it, enough for an army of swans, and Goss strode into the pile and started shaping it. She made a new skin for herself of ice and snow, a creature with enough strength to tear down the wizard’s tower, with teeth sharp enough to break any chain, and the wings to carry her far from this cold wasteland. She shaped and she shaped, and just as the wizard woke to find the fire of the tower unlit and his breakfast unmade, Goss stepped into the shape she’d built for herself.

Perhaps it was the snow, which had been touched by the swans of winter. Perhaps it was her own magic. Or perhaps Goss herself was changing, because when the wizard stepped out of his tower door, he looked up to find a magnificent blue and white dragon bursting out of the snow, beautiful and terrible and triumphant. The dragon flew off, away from the tower, away from Fodlan’s cold winters, farther and farther, until she flew so high that she was just another bright star in the sky. They say you can still see her, sometimes, on cold nights in Faerghus, twinkling away up in the beautiful, endless field of space.

***

“But she didn’t find her true love,” Laila says, when Mama’s voice fades. “Shouldn’t she find her true love and get married and have a billion cats?”

“Her true love was herself,” Uncle Tariq says, and Laila narrows her eyes.

“I don’t get it.”

“I think it’s pretty, Mama,” Aurora says. “But why’d she go so far? She could’ve stayed in Fodlan.”

“Sometimes you need to find somewhere new to live,” Grandma says. She looks at Mama, with her long blue hair pinned up with the jewelry Mom made for her. “Somewhere that allows you to be who you are. Isn’t that right, daughter?”

Mama smiles again, and blushes when Grandma gets up to kiss her on the cheek. “Yes,” she says, in her quietest voice. “Perhaps it is.”


	4. Chapter 4

Thunder booms over the marketplace north of the palace, where wooden tent poles are hastily broken down and boxes of produce are being shoved into carts and under store awnings. Fat, warm drops of rain spot the ground and shake the leaves of rooftop gardens on either side, and Tiana lifts up her hood while Salma helps Laila tie a hat over her thick pink braids. 

Ever since Aurora left for her first stay of more than a month with Dimitri and Felix in Fhirdiad, Laila has been moping around the palace like a ghost, sighing and shrugging and pushing her food around her plate at meals. With Amir only just starting to walk and the littlest, Miri, scrambling to catch up, Tiana and Salma have taken up Laila’s cause between themselves. Today was supposed to involve a trip to the open-air market, but the thunderclouds on the horizon were faster than any of them could have expected, and now, Laila squeals as sheets of rain patter over them, drenching their fine clothes. 

“This is a fine mess,” Tiana shouts. Laila smiles nervously, jumping at the flash of lightning and the ominous rumble in the clouds. “My heart, darling, gem among women, we may need to run to the palace.”

Salma sighs and takes one of Laila’s hands. Tiana takes the other, and they swing Laila off her feet as they half run, half stagger, into the worst of the rain and through the deserted street to the palace. The rain is pleasantly warm, but Tiana still shivers dramatically as they rush inside the covered public entranceway, where they let Laila down. Salma unwraps her sodden, sparkling shawl from her hair and shoulders, and Laila shakes out her sundress, spattering water all over the tiles.

They dry off in the rooms Tiana, Malik, and Salma share when they aren’t in their villa in the north, and Salma wraps Laila up in an oversized tunic and one of Zahir’s old capes, which settles over her like a blanket, while Tiana changes into a wrap dress and towels off her hair. Salma opts for her robes, which are rose gold and more beautiful than any gown Tiana ever saw in Fodlan, and the three of them sprawl out on the cushions and watch the rain mask the city beyond their windows.

“I love the rain in this part of Almyra,” Tiana says.

“You would,” says Salma, running a brush through Laila’s damp hair. “You’re like a storm yourself. Powerful. Unpredictable.”

“It’s why you love me,” Tiana says. Salma glances into her eyes for just a fraction of a second, and smiles warmly.

“It must be.”

“It was storming like this when I ran to Almyra, you know,” Tiana says, lying on her stomach next to Laila. “Thunder and lightning, rain so thick you couldn’t see two feet in front of your face.”

“You must’ve been scared,” Laila says. She jumps as lightning cracks across the sky, and Salma bundles her up into her arms. 

“Tiana isn’t scared of storms, little one,” Salma says. “She laughs at them. What are clouds to a girl with a bow and a sword and no rations, mm?”

Tiana rolls onto her back and smiles up at the dark, roiling stormclouds beyond. “My thoughts exactly.”

***

Tiana is the first to hear the shouts ringing through the Almyran camp. They’re muffled by the rain that beats down on Malik’s tent, nearly drowned by his hot breath at her neck, the sound of her own voice choking down a curse as his fingers thrust into her. But the cry that breaks through the thunder and roar of the storm is one she’s heard before. She pushes at Malik’s shoulders, and he pauses, his whole body going still as a wolf before the kill. There’s another chorus of shouts, closer this time, and both Malik and Tiana reach for their discarded clothes on the floor of the tent. Tiana doesn’t bother with more than her breeches and shirt, which is unbuttoned almost to her waist, and she steps out from the dry refuge of the tent after Malik, who strides shirtless through the muddy field of the Almyran encampment. 

There, struggling to remain on his feet between two Almyran guards, his soft curls flattened by the rain, is Godfrey.

“Shit.” Tiana buttons her shirt as she follows Malik, ignoring the way the rain soaks into her skin, weighing down her thick hair. Godfrey sees Malik coming, makes an odd, low sound in the back of his throat, and drops to his knees in the mud. One of the guards ties his hands behind his back, and Godfrey lets her, his gaze fixed firmly on his knees.

“They send their submissives to fight us?” Malik asks. His voice carries easily over the sound of the rain. “They have so little respect for their submissives in Fodlan, they cast them on our shores like offal. What is it this one wants? Who brought him here?”

Godfrey is shaking. He bows, his forehead mere inches from the ground, and speaks in faltering Almyran. “Please. I heard my sister was here. I mean no disrespect.”

Malik’s lips curl, but Tiana sighs and brushes past him. A few of the Almyrans reach for their weapons, but Tiana gives them a cool, distant look and stops a few inches from Godfrey, hands on her hips. 

“For goddess’ sake, Godfrey, sit up.”

“Tiana.” Godfrey forces himself upright, his eyes wide and glassy. “Saints, that man.“

“Yes, I know.” She pushes his hair out of his eyes, and he blinks slowly.

“No, he. You don’t understand how this feels, Tiana. He could tell me to fall on my sword, and I probably _would._ I’d _thank_ him for it. Goddess. I. How did you—“ Godfrey takes a shaky breath. 

“What is he saying,” Malik says, and Tiana turns back to look at him. He’s magnificent in the rain, water sliding over his arms and down the muscles of his chest, and Tiana doesn’t hide her appreciative gaze.

“He’s my brother,” she says. She looks down at Godfrey and says, in Fodlan, “I sincerely hope you don’t intend to return me to Father.”

“I volunteered,” Godfrey says. “It’s the only way. My lord,” he says, in Almyran, and bows again to Malik. “I came to warn my sister. She is… followed. Her father wants her to… Tiana, what’s the word for, for bearing an heir? It’s House Gloucester. He wants you to combine our houses, have a child with our crest.”

“But you’re the oldest. Surely—“

“I’m a submissive,” he says. “You know he’ll never let me be heir. Not unless there’s no other choice.”

“No. He lost his right to make that choice a long time ago, Godfrey.” Tiana pushes back his bangs, an echo of all the times he ruffled her hair over the years, and smiles faintly. “Buck up, old sport. I’ll sort it out.”

Godfrey manages a weak smile, and Tiana turns to Malik. Lightning flashes, casting the camp into brilliant relief, and when Tiana strides towards him, there’s a heat in his eyes that thrills her, makes her want to drag him to the ground here in front of the entire Almyran camp.

“I’ll deal with him,” she says, though she thinks it comes out wrong, more like _settle_ than _protect._ “I’ll return him to his people. Then I’ll return to you,” she adds, barefoot and nameless in a foreign camp. “Because you’re _mine,_ and I will _have_ you.”

Malik grins, pulls her into a crushing, fierce kiss, one that has her clawing at his hair and lifting her feet off the ground. “I will send someone with you,” he says. “I do not trust these Fodlan soldiers.”

“Trust me,” Tiana says, and pushes away from his broad, furred chest, back to where Godfrey kneels in abject shock in the mud.

“Tiana,” he says, in a dazed voice. “You’re mad.”

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” she says. She glances at the guards. “Let him go. He’s mine.” 

The guards look over her shoulder for a brief moment before they nod, releasing their grip on Godfrey’s shoulders. He bows immediately, and Tiana groans in frustration and drags him up by the arm. “He’s just a man, Godfrey.”

“He isn’t,” Godfrey says. He bows again to Malik, who stares at him impassively, and shivers. “Of course you would like him.”

Tiana smiles. “Yes. I do.”

She walks Godfrey out of the Almyran camp, mindful of her bare feet and her unbuttoned shirt, which clings to her skin. When he’s done rubbing his wrists and Tiana has pocketed the rope, Godfrey gestures to the carriage their father has clearly hired for her, settled down at the end of the Fodlan camp. Tiana almost laughs. The men stationed there are just the household guards, men she’s passed every day since her return from Faerghus. 

“You’re running away,” Godfrey says, in a soft voice.

“I have to.” Tiana wraps an arm around his shoulders. “You know I always had to. You love being a Riegan, even if Father is a beast about it—I’ve seen you, Godfrey. You’re a better voice on the council than he’ll ever be. Or me, for that matter. You _should_ be heir.”

Godfrey’s smile is thin and pinched, an old bitterness hardening the soft edges of his face. “Submissives don’t rule the house of Riegan.”

“They will,” Tiana says, and straightens as the guards finally spot them. They are all dominants, she knows—her father wouldn’t send submissives to drag her home—but as Tiana steps forward, she can feel the thunder rolling at her back, the lightning crackling in the clouds, the pounding rain a cloak on her shoulders. Godfrey draws back from her, his fingers slipping from her arm, and Tiana tosses her damp curls as a bolt of lightning strikes behind her, making the horses whinny and shriek. 

“You will kneel,” she says, imbuing her voice with years of cultivated dominance, “for the heir of Riegan, leader of the Alliance, your lord Godfrey von Riegan.”

Godfrey makes a soft sound behind her, and the guards, dominants all, look at Tiana with mixed expressions of shock and disbelief.

Above her, the storm rages.

“You will kneel,” she says. Her dominance is not a blunt weapon. It is not meant to hammer and bludgeon—It is a sword, a rapier, sharp and quick and cutting, so deceptively powerful that it can strike through the heart of a man without warning. “You will show your _fealty_ to your _lord,_ ” she says, standing there barefoot in her brother’s clothes, wreathed in the flash of lightning.

One by one, as Godfrey watches with a hand pressed to his throat, as Tiana stands cloaked in the storm at the zenith of her power, the men of von Riegan sink to their knees.

***

Ah, but she is magnificent. 

Malik understands nothing of what she says to the man who kneels, his only knowledge of the Fodlan tongue are the sorts of curses hurled between soldiers on the battlefield or combatants at the games. But it isn’t about the words, not really; it’s about her standing proud and tall in the rain. Like a warrior. Like a _queen_. 

“That man, do you know who he was?” Nader says, falling in beside him as Malik stands in the rain, watching near the dark line of trees where Tiana had vanished. “Godfrey von Riegan.” His words trip a bit over the strangeness of the name. “The Lady Tiana is his sister.” 

“Hmm.” Malik knows enough of Fodlan to know the names of noble houses near the Almyran border; Riegan is a name he has heard before. “That name seems not worthy of her.” 

“Malik,” Nader says, chuckling, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You are quite taken with her. Do you mean to toss her on the back of your wyvern, bring her home? She is no submissive, and you are soon to be the king.” 

Malik knows very well what he is, and what she is not. “She will ride to Almyra with me, an equal.” 

“Malik,” Nader says, again. “She is -- remarkable, yes. But she is a Fodlaner. A dominant. And a noble, here. What sort of life awaits her in Almyra? She cannot be your royal submissive, what would you have her be?” 

Malik cuts a glance down at him. “My queen.” 

Nader stares. “Your father --” 

“Will say nothing,” Malik interrupts. “He may challenge me, if he wishes.” His voice goes sharp. “As may you, if you think you can defeat me. Take the crown.” 

“Long ago, I pledged as your cousin, your blood-brother, to be your general. I would rather command an army than rule, but you must know this is...impulsive.” Nader shakes his head. “And it might make others challenge you.” 

Malik is unconcerned. Life in Almyra is always a challenge. He killed three men who wanted to take the throne from him before his voice dropped. One was his own half-brother. He knows well how brutal his homeland can be. He is no weakling, to be afraid of a challenge. “She is worth it.” 

“Ah, Malik. You are in love with this woman, yes?” Nader laughs again as the rain picks up. “The maidens back home will weep when they hear it. To think, all it took to win your heart was to knock you on your ass in a fight.” 

“My little demon, she is wicked with a blade.” Malik’s eyebrows raise as one of their soldiers comes through from the Fodlan camp. He gives a sharp whistle, and the soldier approaches, going to his knees even in the rain, the mud. “What is it?” 

“They are saying a warrior born of lightning appeared in the Fodlan camp,” the soldier says. He flashes a grin up at Malik. “She spoke like thunder, and they all knelt in the rain for her.” 

Malik smiles. “That was no stormborne warrior of Fodlan. That is the future queen of Almyra.” 

“You might want to ask her about that, first,” Nader murmurs, but quietly. 

Malik dismisses the soldier with a nod, and turns to Nader. “If you mean to challenge me for my choice in bride --” 

Nader laughs, loud, and claps Malik on his back again. “I’m challenging your manners, not your choices. Your demon-blade-wielder, she probably would like to be asked to be the queen, yes? Or have you even told her who you are?” 

Malik shrugs. “We have not concerned ourselves much with talking, Nader.” 

“Perhaps you might try it, your highness,” Nader says, a bit sarcastically. “If you truly mean to bring her home, she should know who you are. Who _she_ will be, if she comes with you.”

Malik did not think his Tiana was the type to be quelled by the thought of a crown, but he inclines his head. Nader has been loyal since they were children. While all Malik wants to do is drag Tiana back to the tent and get back to what they’d been doing before her brother and the Fodlan soldiers appeared, perhaps he should tell his little demon the truth of things.

If she leaves with them at dawn, he will not let her leave him while he has breath in his body. It is best she knows. 

Lightning flashes; and he sees Tiana striding through the rain, red hair soaked, the shirt she’d pulled on sodden and her feet bare. She is a small thing, barely coming up to his shoulder when she reaches him. Her arms go around his neck, and she smiles up at him like the sunrise. 

Her skin is rain-slick and chilled, so he sweeps her up into his arms and shouts to the guards, all watching with something like amusement as the future king carries the Fodlan girl toward his tent. “See we are not disturbed.” 

The rain is picking up, as is the storm, when he ducks into the tent and deposits her on her feet so he can help her strip off her wet clothes. He’s distracted the second she stands gloriously naked before him -- they can talk after he puts her on her back again, makes her writhe and moan -- but then she shivers again, and he sighs and turns to find her a blanket. His lust can wait. 

“Come. You are cold.” He puts the blanket around her shoulders, jerks his head toward the floor pillows. “Sit, there. I will make tea.” Malik grabs a towel and dries himself off quickly before he goes to find the small teapot. 

“Tea,” she says, wringing out her hair before she pads over and takes her seat on the pillows. She watches Malik with her forest-green eyes as he prepares the tea; a pine blend from the north, his favorite. “You want tea.” 

“Do not be foolish, little demon. You know what I want. But you are cold. Wet.” 

She smirks. “Well. I was wet before I went out in the storm. And so are you. Soaked.” Her eyes run over his body, and he preens a bit at the appreciation he sees there. 

“I like when you burn for me, when you shivered because my fingers were inside you, my mouth on your neck. Not because you are cold from the rain.” 

“Keep saying things like that, and it will warm me up better than tea.” She smiles and watches him, wrapped up in the blanket. “When you leave, tomorrow. I will go with you.” 

He smiles briefly and pours the tea. “Will you.” 

“Yes. There’s nothing for me, at home.” The rain starts to pick up again, and the tent shakes with the thunder. “I can fight. I’m smart. I know your language, enough. I can be a mercenary.” Her chin tilts up. “If you won’t bring me with you, I’ll just follow you.” 

He takes her the tea and settles down, then pulls her -- blanket and all -- into his lap. “As if I would let you go, little demon.” He pushes her hair to the side and kisses her neck. “Drink your tea. I want no cold thing in my bed.” 

She huffs but drinks the tea, and he kisses her neck, rubs her arms. “I will take you to Almyra, little demon. But you will be lonely, yes? None of your people are there.” 

She leans back against his chest, raising the steaming cup of tea to her mouth. “Oh, no. That’s awful.” 

It’s clear she doesn’t mean it. He laughs soft against her skin, growing impatient to strip her and have her naked again. He’d barely been able to enjoy it before they’d had to rush out into the rain. “Your brother, will he fight me for you?” 

“My brother couldn’t stay off his knees just looking at you, Malik. No, he understands. He will go home, be the lord there. My father may send men. But maybe not. He will think himself well-rid of me, probably.” 

“Then he is a fool and does not deserve you in his house. Carry his name no longer, little demon. You’ll have no need of it, in Almyra.” He tugs on the blanket, and she eagerly wriggles about so he can divest her of it and toss it aside. “Finish your tea. But if they do come, then I will put them on their knees and tell them to go back to your father’s house. If they do not do it, their blood will stain the sands of my homeland.” 

She shivers, but he doesn’t think it’s from the cold, now. Tiana drains the tea and sets the cup aside. “You can finish warming me up.” 

He tumbles her back on the pillows, kissing her. Her hands are still cool, running up and down his back, his arms. He pushes himself up on his elbow to look at her. 

“You look so fierce,” she says, reaching up and tracing his brow, his jaw. “So handsome, my Malik. Do you intend to take your pleasure of me and bid me farewell in a strange land, then?” 

“Would you come, if I said yes?” Malik asks, curious. 

She nods. “I saw a book, once. After I fell out of that tree, years ago. A woman crowned in stars. Something about your homeland...it feels like maybe I belong there.” 

“You do,” he says, kissing her. “But you insult me if you suggest I am not strong enough to keep you.” 

“Perhaps you have a family, back in Almyra. A...do you marry, there?” 

Malik is surprised into a laugh as he shifts on top of her. “Of course. They do teach you nothing of us, hmm, little demon?” 

“You don’t know even know my language,” she says, pertly, tugging his hair. “I had to learn yours.” 

“You will teach me some.” He presses hot kisses on her neck. “In my family. We marry only one person, but we have submissives.” 

“Even for you, I won’t be that,” she says, arching up against him. 

“I don’t wish that of you. I would have you as my wife.” He raises his head, studies her. “We will get you a submissive. A pretty one, to order to their knees for you. Would you like that?” 

“Which? To marry you, or put some pretty thing on their knees?” Tiana laughs as the wind howls outside. The storm is a good omen. Blessing his choice of bride, he thinks. “I will marry you. But you will promise never to take my weapons.” 

“I would never insult you that way.” He takes her chin in his hand. “I want to take you. Feel you come, with my cock inside you.” 

She nods, her face flushed, hair drying on the pillow, framing her like fire. Her green eyes sparkle like jewels in the muted light. “You’re not going to make me wait for our wedding night, are you?” 

As far as Malik is concerned, this _is_ their wedding night. “In the morning,” he says, his hand once more between her legs, teasing at the wetness there. “We will ride my wyvern, together. To Almyra.” He pushes his cock against her hip, rubs it lazily, lets her feel how hard he is. 

“Yes, yes,” she says, and then something in her Fodlan language he does not know, but it sounds sweet when she says it, musical. “Stop - stop teasing me. I want to -- ah --”

“I will not take your weapons. I will not dishonor you that way. I will be a fierce husband. You will be a fierce wife, to me. Yes?” 

“Mmm, yes,” she says, then grabs his hair, hard. “And you will fuck me whenever I want.” 

He grins at her. “Yes, of course. But there is one more thing, little demon. That you should know.” He moves so he’s on top of her, pulls his fingers free and lets her watch while he licks the taste of her off himself. Then he settles against her, cock teasing at her entrance, breathless with eagerness and wanting to finish this talk quickly so he can fuck her as she deserves. 

“What,” she asks, grabbing at his shoulders, nails biting into his muscles. “What _is_ it?” 

He puts his mouth against her ear while he enters her, moaning at how tight she is, how wet, how good she feels. He worries only for a moment that he’s hurting her, but she has her legs up and around his hips, is trying to fuck herself on his cock and she’s making lovely, breathless little sounds as he fills her completely. 

“Be loud for me, little demon,” Malik says, as he starts to fuck her. “Let them all hear you taking your pleasure, as is your right. I would not want it said that the King of Almyra could not satisfy his queen.” 

“You’re the _king_? Of Almyra?” 

“Yes. Or, I will be, once I am home.” Malik braces above her and flashes a smile down at her. “The woman you saw, in the book. With the crown of stars, yes? That is the first queen of Almyra. The story is she left her place in the starry sky to follow a dragon, who led her to the desert sands. When she found the dragon he turned into a man, and they lay together under the heavens, and the place where they lay became the capital, and they the royal family. So you see, yes? You like this picture, because you are a queen of Almyra.” 

“And you are the dragon I will follow to the desert,” she says, and laughs. “But I would rather not wait to get to the desert for you to fuck me.” 

“And you won’t,” he says, and kisses her. 

And so, the future king of Almyra makes good on his promise while his lady’s cries of pleasure ring out loud, echoed by the storm, long into the night. 

***

“Wow,” Laila says, from where she’s sprawled over Salma’s knees. The storm has settled to a gentle pattering of rain over the city, and Laila watches the water trail down the closed windows, little rivers on the glass. “You and Granddaddy really liked to read.”

Tiana winks at Salma, who sighs and rolls her eyes as though in silent prayer. “Oh, yes, dragonlet,” Tiana says. “We read all the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Fae:  
> As you can see, their courtship was long, not at all impulsive, and full of books.


	5. Chapter 5

“Mom! Mom, Amir _bit_ me!”

Laila, crown princess of Almyra and the weariest seven year-old in the entire universe, sits in her chair and clasps her hands in her lap while Aurora stands on the chair next to her, her buckled shoes pinched tight together. Amir rolls on the ground at their feet, ruining his official portrait clothes, while Miri, his partner in crime, giggles and chews on her scarf. Amir is almost three and looks exactly like a smaller version of their dad, which isn’t lost on Laila. The servants in the halls always talk about how he looks so like the king, down to the darker shade of his skin and his curly hair, and while Laila’s skin is just as brown and _she_ has to take history classes and elocution lessons and _dancing_ , no one ever tells _her_ that she’s much like her dad at all.

Then last year, when she was in Fodlan, someone called her a word she didn’t know that made Aurora shove the kid’s head in the mud until Papa came running over to stop her. She had to ask Uncle Dedue what it meant, later, and he went all quiet and still before he told her. Uncle Dedue always explains things carefully, honestly, like she’s an adult. 

Sometimes, she’ll roll the word on her tongue, test the feel of it. _Bastard._ It’s a lie, of course—Her parents are married, and she’s going to rule Almyra one day, anyways—but it still stings a little, in a way she can’t really describe. 

“Honey, they’re almost done,” Mom says, adjusting her pink braids with that little flick of the wrist that always means she’s angry. “Just stay still for one more second. Please.”

“Mom.” Laila lifts her chin a little as Aurora slumps down in her chair. “Can I go? I want to talk to Mama’s birds.”

Her mom looks at the artist, a guy with big thick glasses and a green suit, who shrugs. “She’s the only one I could get a decent sketch of, honestly.”

“Okay, baby, you can go,” Mom says. “But get Papa or Mama to take you first.”

“Yes, Mom,” Laila says.

She doesn’t. But then, she isn’t really planning on seeing the birds, either, so it’s not a lie. If she _was_ going to see the birds, she’d probably go find Mama, who knows how to talk to them, but right now, Laila takes a left turn on the way to the aviary and out into the Aerie, where the wyvern-riders keep their mounts. 

The Aerie is more of a massive stable than anything, but it’s built in a circle, with a roof made of wooden slats that can be folded up so the wyverns can take off at a moment’s notice. The roof is folded today, which means the riders are probably out putting the wyverns through their paces, so Laila slips around the wide doors and steps onto the hay-strewn floor of the Aerie.

Above her, Altaira, her dad’s wyvern, raises her slender neck and bristles her spines at Laila.

Laila shakes her hair back, and Altaira whistles.

“Yes,” Laila whispers. She whistles back—Daddy taught her how last year, and she’s been practicing on the wyrms for months—and slowly pads across the floor. Altaira is on an upper level, in a comfortable den of hay and blankets, and her white scales gleam in the sunlight as Laila approaches the ladder. 

“Hey, girl,” she says. “Remember me?”

Altaira clicks and whistles, and Laila clicks her teeth and whistles tunelessly as she grabs a middle rung. Everyone knows how her father became known as the wyvern-tamer, back when he was her age. It’s one of the stories that all the servants like to tell, about a little boy who got locked in a shed with a vicious wyvern and tamed her, all by himself, with just some meat he stole from the table. They say it proves he’s Almyran, that the wyverns _chose_ him to be king.

Laila heaves herself onto the ladder. “Please,” she whispers. “Please choose me.”

Altaira squawks a little when the ladder rattles, and Laila gasps, hands clenched on the rung, as something white flashes above her. She forces herself up another rung, then another, and climbs onto the hay of Altaira’s den to find the wyvern staring down at her, head tilted.

“Choose me,” Laila says, softly. “I’m Almyran. I am. I’m gonna be the queen of Almyra. I’m gonna sit on the sky throne where the first queen was crowned. I come from her.” She takes a step forward, raises her hands. Altaira lowers her head, the spines of her crest rising and falling gently, like a wyrm undulating in the breeze.

“I’m going to be queen,” Laila says, and the wyvern lowers her head to bump into Laila’s chest, chattering softly. Laila blows onto her nose, because she remembers that much from her Mama’s lessons, and Altaira huffs back like a horse. Laila grins and rubs a hand over Altaira’s ridged brow.

Altaira knows her. She saw her, and she knew, the way all wyverns know, the way wyrms know, the way the old dragons knew when they saw the rulers of Almyra coming and bowed to let them pass. A knot loosens in Laila’s chest, and when Altaira whistles and spreads her wings in a flurry of hay and a rush of wind, Laila holds onto her neck and laughs.

***

Before this moment, King Khalid of Almyra thought he knew what fear felt like.

He’s feared for his life, once or twice. Felt the bite of steel that slid too close to vital organs for comfort, scanned the battlefield to find death on all sides, _seen_ it at Gronder, in Dimitri, in the ghosts that still return to him on rare nights when he thrashes and stares up at Claude with a clear blue eye as cold as the heart of Faerghus.

But he’s never actually been afraid, he realizes. Not really. Not until now.

His firstborn daughter stands beside Altaira, the same wyvern who nearly tore his leg to shreds when he was fifteen, and presses her forehead to Altaira’s jaw. The same jaw that can—and has—crushed bone without a thought. Claude’s heart stutters in his chest, and he strides across the Aerie floors quietly, not too quickly, trying to keep the fear from showing on his face.

“My girl,” he says, and both his daughter and the wyvern turn to stare at him. Laila gasps, shrinking back, and Altaira actually—actually _hisses_ at him. “Baby, I’ll need you to walk very slowly back to the ladder, alright?”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Laila says, and when she touches Altaira’s side, Altaira whistles at her. Claude narrows his eyes. His girl doesn’t take to anyone. She barely deigns to tolerate Claude, some days, but here she is, chirping at Laila like a bird, her spines ruffling the way they do when she’s feeling kittenish and sweet. Claude holds his breath and prays to anyone who can listen that she’ll stay in this mood until he can bring Laila back down again.

“Laila,” Claude says. He takes hold of the ladder. “You know you’re not allowed up here. It’s dangerous.”

Laila eases under Altaira’s wing, running her fingers over her scales. “I know. I just. I wanted to see.”

“We have other wyverns you can visit,” Claude says. “Young ones, friendly ones.” Ones that won’t try to eat your hair, he doesn’t say. 

“But Altaira chose you,” Laila says. Her voice is very soft, and she’s half hidden by Altaira’s wing. 

“She also _bites_ me,” Claude says. Laila’s mouth quirks in a half smile, and Claude clambers onto the platform. Altaira looks at him strangely, warily, and he lays a hand on her horns and whistles low. She shifts a little, and Claude wonders if something might be wrong with her legs—she’s usually eager to fly when she sees Claude, rolling on her back and clawing at the air, but now, she just sits there and flexes her wings. 

“Here, sweet girl,” Claude says. “What’s the matter?”

“You call Mama that,” Laila says. “Sweet girl.”

“Because she is,” Claude tells her. He runs his hands down Altaira’s neck, pushing at her soft underbelly, checking for pain. “But Mama is sweet all over. Altaira is sweet like the fruit Uncle Nader likes, bitter on the outside. Full of spikes. It’s strange for her to be so… nice.” 

“She’s sweet to me,” Laila says. She sits under Altaira’s wing, looking up at the sunlight through the thin membrane of her wings. “Maybe she knows.”

“Knows what, baby?” Claude tickles Altaira’s belly, and she grumbles and shifts on her claws. “Come on girl, get up.”

“That I’m. I’m gonna be queen. Of Almyra.” Laila fiddles with the hem of her dress robe, and Claude pauses, hands pressed flat to his wyvern’s chest. He remembers, with the dull pain of an old wound, the nights he used to hide in the Aerie, curled up in Altaira’s saddle blanket. He remembers the tickle of hay at his back, the stars shining through the gaps in the roof, Altaira’s low clicks and whistles when she woke to find her strange human in her den again, her sharp teeth digging at his pockets for treats. It’s a been a while, he realizes, since he’s felt that aching loneliness, the desire to wander, to take Altaira beyond the northern coast and see what lies beyond it. He gives Ataira a warning look—She just clicks at him, whatever _that’s_ supposed to mean—and settles down next to Laila. 

“You know,” he says. “The royal family isn’t all Almyran.”

“I know. Daddy and Papa and Mama are from Fodlan.” Laila sighs heavily. “And Mom.”

“Not like that. I mean the old line, the one we’ve inherited. We’re not all Almyran.” He folds his arms around his legs, and Altaira raises her wing to cover him, as well. Which is. Odd. She only ever does that when they’re traveling, when she’s too exhausted from an afternoon’s flight to bother with kicking Claude aside.

“If this is about the first king being a dragon,” Laila says.

“No, that’s just a story. I think. No, I mean your… great-great-great something grandmother. The first one they called wyvern-tamer, like me. She was from Brigid.”

Laila narrows her eyes. “Uncle Zahir says our line is true.”

“Uncle Zahir’s full of shit,” Claude says, and Laila gasps. “Don’t tell your mothers I said that. Or your daddy. Especially your daddy.”

Laila gives him the scandalized look of a girl who is definitely, absolutely going to tell Dimitri the first chance she gets, and nods. 

“I mean, he is, though. It’s history, Laila. Queen Alexandra—Even her name isn’t Almyran, did you notice? She was an exile from Brigid. A peasant. Some say a thief, on the run from the law, but I think it was worse than that. Her old letters to the queen of Brigid are… not... pleasant. I’ll let you read them when you’re older. But she didn’t come from Almyra. She ended up here on her own, no family, no home, nothing. Made a living breaking wild wyverns for the army, which is how she met the queen. She might have been from Brigid, but everyone who met her learned she was Almyran soon enough. And she was the one who carried on the line, Laila. Sure, there was some—“ He decides that now is probably not the time to mention that the royal line had a habit of marrying cousins back then, in order to keep the line to the first Queen unbroken— “I mean, they worked it out.”

“So Uncle Zahir—“

“He’s part Brigid, yeah. And full of shit.” 

“Dad!”

Yeah, he’s probably going to catch hell from Dimitri for this tonight. “Just don’t repeat it and you’re fine, sweetheart.”

Altaira shifts again, grumbling slightly, and Laila frowns. She turns on her knees and presses her hands to the wyvern’s flank. “Dad? Do you think she’s sitting on something?”

Claude goes still.

No.

No, he’d have noticed. He definitely would have noticed. Except, well, Altaira was a bit grumpier than usual the past few weeks, sure, but he chalked it up to a change in the weather or the fact that she had to be in the presence of inferior beings—as in, everyone. But when Laila touches her belly, Altaira stands up, just for a moment, and Claude sees something white and ridged nestled in a lump of hay before she sits down again.

Laila slaps both hands over her mouth. “Dad. Dad, that was an egg. That was an _egg.”_

Claude runs his hands through his hair. “Uh huh,” he says, in a high voice. He didn’t think Altaira _could_ lay eggs anymore. Not after that blow during the war, the one that nearly felled her, which had Claude trembling and practically roaring at anyone who came close, more like a wyvern than man. “Think so.”

That explains her mood, at least. Wyverns don’t give birth easily—an egg can kill them, more likely than not—and they’re like ducks when they’re laying. They’ll adopt any small creature that wanders into their den, even humans, apparently. There are always stories of wyverns rescuing war orphans, taking them in and savaging anyone who comes close. Even Altaira, it seems, is not immune.

“You know what this means, Laila,” Claude says. He eases her out from under Altaira’s wing. “She was the first to show you her egg. Wyvern lore says her child will be yours, then, when they hatch.”

Laila silently grabs Claude’s hand and squeezes his fingers tight.

“You’ll have to visit her every day,” Claude tells her. “And you’ll need to be here when they hatch, alone, so you’ll be one of the first people they see. It’s work, Laila, having a wyvern. Hard work.”

Laila nods slowly. “I know.”

“You can’t abandon them if they fight you, or claw at you, or act out because they’re beasts and don’t understand things the way you do.”

“I wouldn’t.” Her voice is whisper soft. 

“Altaira chose you,” Claude says. “Remember that, Laila.”

Laila squeezes Claude’s hand, and her eyes, so like her mother’s, are wide and overbright.

“I will,” she breathes. “I promise.”

****

“But Papa,” Aurora says. “I want a _pointier_ sword. Like yours. This one won’t beat any bad guys!” 

Claude leans back on the chair and grins, watching his daughter solemnly try to explain to Felix -- who’s earned a sobriquet in Almyra, _Beloved Sword-Wielder_ , in addition to his others -- why she, too, should have have a sword with a pointed blade instead of the practice wooden one that Felix has given her. 

“You won’t need to face any bad guys for a while, Aurora,” Felix says, with admirable aplomb. 

“Or ever,” Claude adds, under his breath. He can’t help but smile, though, as Felix bows and then, with extraordinary patience for a man who could probably fight off an entire battalion on his own, meets the exuberant and wild sword-swings of his daughter. 

The royal Fodlan summer home on the border of the Alliance is a far cry from what Claude remembers of the dull, grim von Riegan manor. It’s a proper noble country home with new stone and brick, heavy cross beams over the vaulted roofs, and a stable large enough to house an entire fleet of wyverns. The fields are thick with dandelions, which puff up around Aurora as she tries, and fails, to follow Felix’s careful instructions.

“It’s like a dance,” Felix says. “Do you remember your dancing lessons? Feet apart. Keep your balance. Remember the rhythm.”

“But there isn’t music,” Aurora says. “No one plays music when they’re _fighting._ ”

“My mother used to sing.” 

Claude straightens a little. Felix rarely mentions his mother, even now; He treats the past like an afterthought, best forgotten, while Dimitri is liable to wax poetic about Felix’s heart being like the sea or his father rescuing a baby goat on the roof. He leans forward, and Felix clears his throat a little, glancing at Claude.

“Keep your sword up,” Felix says. Coward.

Beyond Felix and Aurora, kites skitter across the pale sky. Hilda walks between Miri and Amir, her long summer gown billowing in waves of pink and gold behind her, while Amir hangs on with every inch of his four year old life, and Miri just drags her kite along the ground and screams. It’s a happy scream, at least. He thinks.

Laila’s kite is painted bright red, and her baby wyvern, Sunflower, hops and whistles and flaps her stubby wings after it. Dimitri places a hand on her shoulder and points to where Marianne is sitting with a book, and Laila laughs as Dimitri picks her up in his arms, loping off down the field with the kite and wyvern trailing after them.

“What’d she used to sing, Papa?” Aurora asks. “Did it make her any good?”

“Did it make her—Aurora.” Felix almost looks affronted. “Only one person could defeat my mother in combat, and that’s your grandmother.”

Claude smiles. “My mother always respected the Duchess Fraldarius’ skill with the blade. Why don’t you demonstrate?”

Felix colors beautifully and shoots Claude a warning look. “I—“

“Daddy sings to us all the time,” Aurora says. She wipes her brow with her sleeve. “Please?”

Felix sighs. “You won’t know the language,” he says. Claude raises his brows. “It’s a peasant dialect. My mother’s people were elevated to nobility only a few generations back, it’s. It’s something the, ah. Fisherwomen used to sing.”

“Now this, I have to hear,” Claude says. “Go on. Consider it an order from the king.”

Felix glares at him, then steps back and raises his sword. His voice, when it comes, isn’t all bad—Claude remembers Felix singing under his breath to the kids when they were very young, hidden away in the corner where no one could hear—and the words are _almost_ Fodlan, but not quite, lilting and slightly slurred. There’s a beat to it, too, a firm rhythm that Claude can see serving well to haul in nets and row boats to shore, and Felix slides into a new position with each halting shift to the song. 

Aurora lets her sword drag on the ground as she goes over to sit at Claude’s feet. Dandelions swirl in the air, and Felix seems to forget them, for a moment. He’s smiling faintly, and there’s something foreign and strange about the way he moves, not at all like Felix’s usual style, and Claude wonders if this is Felix’s mother that he’s watching now, long hair drifting in the breeze, gaze sharp, voice rising. The rhythm of the song speeds up, and Claude catches a few words in Fodlan— _Into the sea with you, and your cloak of skin_ —which sounds about the right level of fucked-up for a Fodlan folk song, really. Then Felix stops, panting, his hair in his face, his eyes wild and unseeing. Aurora applauds.

“I… I don’t remember the rest,” he says. He stares into the distance, still caught between, like one of the old stories of Faerghus warriors possessed by ghosts in battle. “Something about the woman, uh. Going into the ocean, I think. To be with her children.”

“Yeah, I can believe that,” Claude says. “Come here.”

Felix sets his sword down and leans over Aurora so Claude can kiss him, soft and gentle, one hand in his hair.

“Dad,” Aurora says. “Gross.”

Felix actually laughs. 

The kites bob and weave in the air as Dimitri takes turns carrying Amir and Miri across the field, and Aurora leans back on Claude’s knees and closes her eyes. “One day,” she says, “I’m gonna be like that. Like the dance.”

“Careful,” Claude says. “You might have to challenge your grandmother for the title of the best swordswoman in Almyra soon enough.”

“No one can beat grandma,” Aurora says, plucking a strand of grass. “Even Papa.”

“Working on it,” Felix says.

Aurora folds the grass stem in her fingers. “Does grandma do the singing thing? How’d she get to be, you know, the demon blade?”

“She isn’t the demon blade, she just wields it,” Claude points out.

“But an argument can be made for the former,” Felix says. “Do you want to know the story?”

Aurora’s eyes light up the way only bows, swords, and kittens can inspire. “ _Yes._ ”

Felix clears his throat. “Well. She was with the king. Your grandfather. Someone didn’t like her being queen, so they tried to kill her. She dispatched them.”

Aurora stares at Felix for a moment, then turns to look up at Claude.

“Dad,” she says. “Tell the _real_ story.”

“That _was_ the real one,” Felix mutters, but Claude just laughs and reaches down to ruffle her hair.

“Of course,” he says, shooting Felix a smug grin. “I’ll be happy to.”

***

It is one thing, Tiana knows, as she slides off the back of her husband’s wyvern and onto the soft grass of Northern Almyra, to grasp her destiny with both hands and drag it into the light. It’s another to see the shape she’s made of it the next morning. 

It’s been four months since she and Malik were wed in the grand, brilliant upper floors of the royal palace, with her lovely new dress that fanned out about her waist like the golden panels of a honeycomb, a heavy crown on her red-brown hair. Coming to Almyra was like shedding an ill-fitting cloak for the soft embrace of one meant for her—She loves it, from the heat to the music to the poetry Malik reads to her, in quiet moments when the sound of the city rouses her in the night. She loves the people, too, but she also knows, with a rush of something uncomfortably like fear, that she doesn’t exactly _know_ them, yet. She is an anomaly here, a foreign queen who appeared in a storm and forsook her name for the crown, and that sacrifice was so easily made that she doesn’t blame the looks of trepidation in the soldiers who stand at attention before her.

“Your majesty.” A young woman with the long white hair of Duscur drops to a knee before Malik. Her shoulders glimmer with the badges of her rank, and the soldiers behind her kneel at her signal, dozens of them, heads bowed. “We’ve cornered the insurgents at the ravine. Their leaders were taken a week ago. Those who remain are young, rash. They think themselves martyrs.”

“They always do,” Malik says. The woman smiles through her hair. “Well done. We will rout them tomorrow, give them time to make a fight of it.”

Or to surrender, Tiana thinks, looking out at the encampment sprawled over the grass. Even would-be martyrs would drop their weapons at the sight of rows of armored wyverns, well-fed soldiers, and the golden cloak of the king. She recalls the letters she used to write to Godfrey, the military exercises her troublesome scandal dragged her to in Faerghus, and wonders how, exactly, any insurgents could believe they have a chance.

“Your majesty the queen,” the woman says, and Tiana glances down at her sharply. “I am Selene, the general of his majesty’s northern forces. It is good to see you well.” Tiana nods, and Selene rises to her feet. “If I may give you a tour of the camp, your majesties.”

It’s her first time visiting a camp that isn’t of Faerghus or the Alliance, and Tiana is struck by how vast it is, by the designated lines for the cooks, tailors, and families who inevitably follow their people into battle, to the soldiers who stop everything to kneel or bow before Malik as he passes, never mind their designation. They rise a little quickly as Tiana passes them, and she notes one or two stand before she’s even crossed their path, and she stops each time to look them in the eyes, one hand on the pommel of her sword, until they sink back to their knees.

 _You’re not making any friends, old girl._ Godfrey’s voice in her head again, her only tempering influence, goes largely ignored as they pause in the heart of the camp. The infirmary before them is quiet but bustling, and a young aide nearly drops a basket in her hurry to bow.

“You know the doctor’s orders,” someone shouts behind her. “Kneel on your own time, girl!”

She glances back into the infirmary, then up at Malik, who grins. 

“Your doctor tells them not to kneel for the king?” he asks Selene, who gestures at the girl. She flushes dark red and clutches her basket tight as she flees.

“You may have heard of our camp physician, your majesty. Salma the Unyielding was with us until last week.” 

“The—oh, yes.” Malik’s grin widens. “I’ve heard of her. They say she made a pact with a demon, Tiana, so that she kneels to no one but him.” He winks at her. Tiana raises a brow. She’s seen him break down plenty of submissives who thought themselves too proud to kneel, and he knows it.

“I wouldn’t know about that, your majesty,” Selene says. “But she wouldn’t let it get between her and her work, at least. We were blessed to have her.”

“And she is not here?” Malik asks. “I would like to see this submissive who thinks she can bow to no one.”

“Ah. No.” Selene straightens her shoulders. “I fear she may have… We had a skirmish last week, you recall, and when we took the leaders of the insurgents, we. May have found her, with them.”

“Dead?” Malik’s brows lower dangerously. 

“No,” Selene says. “With them.”

Malik’s expression darkens, and Selene takes a steadying step back. “Then I will see her.”

“Excuse me.” Tiana turns, alarmed, at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. A young man stands there, golden-eyed and smiling, dressed in the uniform of a footsoldier. “Do I have the honor of speaking to her majesty, lady Tiana?”

“You do,” Tiana says. Behind her, Malik is speaking softly to Selene, no doubt trying to see who _else_ may have decided to turn traitor for the sake of a weakening group of rebels, and Tiana is left alone, the wind tousling her curls.

“You speak the language well,” the man says. Tiana smiles faintly, and his answering smile is sharp as a blade. “I did not know they trained Fodlan whores in the Almyran tongue.”

Malik goes quiet. The camp seems to still, just for a heartbeat, as the man standing before Tiana takes a step back and draws his sword, an arc of steel curving in a perfect line to her throat.

***

There is a moment when Malik nearly reaches for his sword, but it is only through sheer force of his will that he does not. Nader, his father, his advisors...all of them had told him that this was the danger in bringing his foreign-born queen out to the camps.

But Almyra is what it is, and Malik’s fingers itch to go for his blade but he does not take away his wife’s honor to defend herself, which he knows very well she will be able to do. Even though this upstart traitor sought to take her head with a single blow, the only one whose life-blood will water the soil here today is _him_. 

Malik’s mouth curls up into a smirk as Tiana moves like some creature from legend, fast and light, to block this attempt on her life. His blood boils at the thought of someone thinking he would take a woman too weak to defend herself to be queen, but he says nothing, moves not at all as he watches Tiana’s sword flash in the sunlight, the silver soon stained red with the blood of her would-be assassin. 

She dances like raindrops in a storm and it is over in mere seconds; though he remains impassive, it is the longest of Malik’s life. But her aim is true, and the move she uses to counter the assassin’s blade is one she must have learned in her homeland, in the cold place where she went to learn the art of the sword and fell into bed with a pretty thing who surely must have wept to see her go. 

She kills quickly, far quicker than Malik wishes, infuriated that someone would dare raise arms against her. But before he can so much as draw a deeper breath, he catches sight of someone out of the corner of his eye -- of course. What assassin would work alone, go for only the queen when they hate her so much? Why not dispatch him, the king they surely must feel betrayed them by taking a Fodlan-born wife? 

The assassin knows he’s been spotted, and he shouts, “For Almyra, and a true king!” before he rushes at Malik. It is Tiana, though, who steps in and meets the assassin with her bloodied steel; she only just manages to impale him through the side, perhaps a deadly wound, but perhaps not enough. 

It is of no matter. Malik hauls off and _backhands_ his attempted killer, so hard he hears something crack, sees blood spray from the man’s mouth as Tiana, quick like the lightning many think bore her, steps in close and slides the edge of her blade over the man’s throat. The blood sprays, and Malik sees it hit his wife in the face, taste the copper of it on his own mouth as the assassin twitches and gurgles and gasps, grasping uselessly at his throat before he dies choking on his own blood. 

Malik steps forward and kicks him, hard, turning his traitorous body over in the dirt. He draws himself to his full height, ignoring for a moment his wife panting hard at his side, wide-eyed from the kill -- her first, he thinks, he knows the look well -- and puts all of his command into his voice, thundering, “Are there any others who wishes to challenge the queen of Almyra for her right to rule? The king? Or are you harboring dealers of death in the shadows, too afraid to face what you seek to destroy?” 

Nothing answers him but the wind, the sounds of nature, distant and removed. “Come now! If you would slay either of us, see what you will get for your trouble. Bloody death at my feet, quicker than you deserve.” He all but spits the words -- the submissives in the camp are on their knees again, as are most of the dominants. “Well?” 

Silence, and Malik thunders, “Then if you are loyal, you will _kneel_ , to the king _and_ queen of Almyra!” 

There is not a single person left standing when his voice fades, save his lady wife, still gripping hard at her sword. 

“See that these traitors are burned and their ashes scattered to the four winds,” Malik snarls at a commander. “There is no honor in this challenge, only cowardice.” 

With that, he grabs Tiana and pulls her into the nearest tent, which is empty. She’s on him in a second, hands all over him, shaking with adrenaline and he understands, he knows what she needs. He smears the blood on her face and bares his teeth at her, fierce, growling, “As if anyone is strong enough to take you from me, as if you would let them,” and she moans and pulls him into a fierce, heady kiss. 

“Malik,” she gasps, dragging him down onto the ground. She pushes him and he goes willingly, knowing she needs to work out the adrenaline in her own way, sprawled on his back on the rough ground while she works at his pants, gets his cock free. Her hand is shaking as she strokes him to full hardness, which does not take long, given how eager she is for him. 

“Yes,” he growls, staring up at her. “Yours, yes, take your pleasure of me, my queen.” 

She climbs on top of him, graceless in a way she never is with this, his wife who bewitches him with a thousand different spells in the bedroom, teasing and demanding in turn, always so eager for his hands, his mouth, his cock. She’s even taken _him_ as is her right, behind him on her knees with him on all fours, in front of a mirror so she could see his face and he hers, the way she threw her head back and laughed in delight as she pressed the cock strapped about her hips inside of him. 

_You took your queen’s cock like the king you are, my love,_ she’d murmured, sweat-soaked and delighted with how hard she’d made him come, riding his face and finding her pleasure on his mouth. 

There is no teasing, not now; just her mouth on his, her small hands fumbling to get her underclothes out of the way so she can mount him. He hisses in pleasure at the tight wet heat of her, aroused by eagerness to claim her king, the blood on her from the men she’d killed, her deadly small hands firm on his shoulders while she started to ride him. 

“I -- they’ll never, no,” she pants, then starts speaking in Fodlan, too quickly for him to understand and switching rapidly into Almyran. He puts his hands on her hips to help her, and she allows it so she can rub herself to completion while he fucks up into her. 

“Let them hear you, my wife,” he says, as he did that first time in their tent amidst a storm in her homeland. “You killed for me. I am yours.” 

She cries out and shudders on top of him, collapsing and gasping into his neck. He thinks about putting her on her back to finish, but she’s still moving on top of him, grinding on his cock and biting hard at his neck, worrying the skin with sharp teeth. 

He comes with a loud shout, not bothering to temper it, wanting them all to hear in the camps. The king and queen of Almyra will not be cowed by foolish weak attempts to kill them. All told, their frantic coupling in the tent takes almost less time than they’d spent killing, but when it is over and she rests fully atop him, still shaking and he does not think it is from desperate passion, now. 

He wraps his arms around her, precious thing that she is, and strokes her hair. “Shh, sweet thing. You did well. They will tell stories of you, my queen. That you strike like a demon to keep safe Almyra, your king, your husband who loves you more than his own life.” 

“I --” Tiana’s breath is warm on his neck, coming too fast, so he flips them so she’s beneath him and pins her wrists. 

“Settle for me,” he murmurs. “We must face our people, my fierce queen. Settle. You are all right. I know how it is, the first time. Breathe, my love. Breathe.” 

She does, and he releases her hands, not wanting to keep her pinned too long or to make her feel trapped. When her shaking eases he gathers her to him again, sits on the ground and holds her in his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, at length, lifting her face to his. Her face is dry but her eyes are bright, her face flushed but still a little pale beneath the spots of red on her cheeks. “I do not want to dishonor--” 

“Hush. You have made me the happiest king, the happiest man, do you see? That you are fierce and strong, strike without mercy, that is what means to be the queen. I chose well and now they know.” He kisses her, gently, on the forehead. “Death is not easy to deliver, Tiana of Almyra. It is a true queen who feels the loss of her people, even when they so unwisely throw their lives away.” 

After a few deep breaths, she nods and says, “My face, I -- would like to clean it.” 

Malik climbs to his feet and helps her up. “Do not. Let them see. After, I will take you to the baths, the hot springs. Wash the death from you. Show you are alive, worship you with my body.” 

“Sweet-talker,” she says, smiling a little, only slightly shaking, now. “King Malik, a poet at heart.” 

He nods, takes her hand and kisses it, a bit clumsy as it is not a gesture they favor, here. “All our poets are warriors.” 

She huffs at him. “I think you’re lying.” She leans up and kisses him. “Thank you for letting me fight.” 

“I swore to you that I would not take your weapons. I will not take the kills that are yours to make, little demon. Come.” He nods and together they emerge into the camp.

He hears the murmurs as they walk, the name they are calling her, the sobriquet they will use, he imagines, from now until the moment she rests at last in the consuming flames.

 _The queen, Tiana, Wielder of the Demon Blade._

***

Aurora blows on a dandelion, watching the seeds drift and catch the low breeze rippling over the field. In the distance, Dimitri is wrapping up the kites while Marianne somberly takes a frog Amir and Miri found in the grass, and Hilda is sunning herself on the rock with Laila and her wyvern curled up beside her. The seeds float towards them, disappearing against the sky, and Aurora frowns.

“Are you _sure_ they read books in the _tent?_ ” Aurora asks, and Felix chokes a little, trying to hide a laugh. “That doesn’t seem very… what’s it Daddy says, Papa? Pawsible?”

“Plausible,” Felix manages to say. 

“Yes,” Aurora says, in her most Dimitri-like manner. She flips her shaggy blue hair from her eyes. “Plausible.”

“I’m only telling you what Grandma told me,” Claude says, holding his hands up in surrender. Aurora narrows her eyes and looks from him to Felix, trying to spot the lie. 

“Actually,” Felix says, sitting at Claude’s side while Aurora picks off the remaining seeds on her flower. “There’s something I want to ask, Khalid.”

“Mm?” Claude rests his hand in Felix’s hair, teasing through the tangles. 

“Were there _two_ Salmas?” Felix asks. “The one you mentioned, the one who joined the rebels. Was that another doctor, or was it… I mean, I doubt your father would have…”

“What?” Claude blinks down at him. “No. No, that was my mother. You didn’t know? They’ve written ballads about her, in the North. You heard it once, I know you did, they played it last year and Ma had to get up and leave.”

Felix just stares. “Salma,” he says. “That Salma. The one who sews _coats_ for Laila’s wyvern.”

Claude laughs, tugging at Felix’s hair. “If that’s what you think of her,” he says, “then trust me, sweet thing, you don’t know my mother.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: for some battle imagery, canon-typical and not graphic.

Salma the Unyielding is not a beauty.

She sits in the grass at the edge of the Almyran camp, her hands tied to a post, the sun beating down on her bony shoulders and bare chest. Her back is scabbed with whip weals, and her black hair is a mess of dust and wind, but while the insurgents at the posts down the line curse and sob and twist their wrists against their bindings, she sits quietly in the grass, staring out over the plains of Almyra.

Malik knows of this woman, this Salma. He’s heard rumors of her in his tours with the army—An accomplished surgeon, a woman who trained with the dockworkers in the northern shore and lied about her age to enlist with the army at fifteen. She earned a whipping for that, too, and more besides, when she refused to bow or kneel when generals passed through her tent. They said that entire squads tried to ask for her hand, and she just stared at them, stared _through_ them, in a way no proper submissive should.

And now she sits with traitors, this so-called patriot of Almyra, this Salma with her tangled hair and stubborn jaw and sharp eyes. The only thing beautiful about her, Malik thinks, as he strides across the grass, is her arched nose and piercing gaze, which alights on Malik and Tiana as they approach.

When she sees the cloak on Malik’s shoulder, clasped with the seal of his line, Salma clenches her hands on the rope around the post and slowly rises to her feet.

It’s a deliberate slight, and Malik, still burning with the outrage that anyone would dare to turn on his queen, to turn on _him,_ closes the distance and raises his hand.

And stops.

Salma stares at him, her black eyes unwavering. No submissive has dared to meet his eyes for more than a moment, not since he was barely a man, but Salma, bare-chested and bound, lips cracked by the sun, refuses to look away. 

“Oh,” Tiana says, in a soft voice.

There is a difference, he knows, between striking a submissive who wants to kneel and raising his hand in anger. He can see it there in Salma’s eyes, and when he slowly lowers his hand, Salma’s shoulders sink just a fraction, but she does not kneel.

“You will not kneel for your king?” Malik asks. He speaks low, imbues his voice with all the dominance that is his birthright. “Then you dishonor yourself, and your people.”

Salma does not look away. “I will never dishonor my people.” Her voice is dry, hoarse, a crow’s call.

Again, rage burns in Malik’s chest, surging through him, and he flexes his hands. He stalks around her, this proud traitor, this stain on the Almyran army, with her surgeon’s hands and unnerving eyes. She follows him with her gaze, only breaking free when he paces behind her, and Tiana stands as though stricken a few steps away, her cheeks flushed beneath the blood that stains her skin. Salma glances at her, and Tiana gently lays a hand on her chest.

“Are you well?” Salma says. “It looks like shock—That is not your blood, I hope—“

“ _You will not address your queen,_ ” Malik snarls, “unless I give you leave to do so.” Salma’s legs buckle, and she clenches her thighs together, holding onto the rope as though keeping herself standing through the strength of her arms alone. “Tell me why you would lower yourself to follow these beasts, these creatures that spit at the feet of those who protect them.”

He circles to face her again, and grabs her chin in one hand. Her gaze is almost serene, up close, and her dark eyes reflect his own scowling face.

“A man came to me,” she says. “A boy. The rebels were spitting blood in their sheets, coughing it into their hands. They feared a plague.”

“Yes? Then let it kill them,” Malik says.

“A plague?” Tiana asks. He hears her step forward behind him. “Will it spread?”

“Your queen understands,” Salma says, and looks to Tiana. Something flashes in her eyes, a ripple in a deep pool. “My queen knows, if a plague comes, it will not just take poor, badly-trained rebels from the farmlands. It will take us all. I came to their camp to see for myself. If our soldiers are infected—“

Malik goes cold. He has not seen a plague in his lifetime, but he’s heard his father speak of it—the dead burned in the desert, entire villages gone, generations lost to a slow, creeping death.

“What did you find?” he asks.

“Lung rot,” Salma says. “Common in the north, where many are too poor to avoid the damp that eats into their homes. I suspect there’s a mold in their camp, spores in the air. The rot takes you quickly, here. If they stay where they are, it will take them all within the month.”

“We will take them first,” Malik says, and Salma narrows her eyes.

“And our soldiers will breathe in the spores on the battlefield,” she says, “and more will die.”

“Did you tell the general this, when she found you?”

Salma smiles, and there, that’s what must send dominants to her tent, seeking this strange, unbowed creature. “She would not listen. I do what I must for Almyra, always. If that sees me here, then I am here. And you. The man who would be king.” Malik’s fingers tighten, slide ever so slightly to her neck. “What will you do with me? With your people?”

Malik has heard the stories of dragons who take a human shape, before. They are said to be wild, unsettling, changing all who cross their path. Malik can feel the change stirring in himself, something deep shifting as he looks into Salma’s eyes, and he tilts her chin slightly, examining the shape of her jaw, her cheekbones. Searching for scales.

His father would have killed such a submissive with his bare hands. No questions necessary.

“They say you are a true daughter of Almyra,” he says, in a quiet voice. “Perhaps you are. We will drive the rebels out of the ravine by air, into the fields. If they live, they will be given a choice. As all are given. Death, or service.” He steps back, and Salma sighs, wetting her dry lips. 

“Thank you, your majesty,” she says, and, for the first time, Salma the Unyielding sinks to her knees. She bows until her forehead touches the grass, and Malik realizes, with a force of feeling he only thought possible with his queen, that he wants her. He stands before her, waiting, and when she rises to her knees, he touches her cheek, slides his hand into her thick black hair.

“It is said you kneel for no one.” 

Salma meets his gaze again, just for a second, and again he is uprooted.

“I kneel for Almyra,” Salma says. 

Malik draws her up at that, every dominant instinct flaring at once, and kisses her. She gasps into it, and now she _does_ tug at her restraints, desperate to touch him. Malik breaks free from her to pull out his knife, and Salma drops to her knees with a soft, urgent sound, head bowed, eyes bright. Tiana comes to her, places both hands on her cheeks, and goes down to one knee.

“Beautiful girl,” Tiana says. Salma’s gaze softens, and when her arms are free, she touches the dried blood on Tiana’s cheek with the proper reverence, recognizing it for what it is, the badge of her first kill.

“My queen,” she says, and Tiana smiles as though Salma truly is a dragon, wings unfurled against the sky. 

***

The heat of the springs races up Salma’s back as she ducks her head under the water, her dark curls drifting about her like a stormcloud. It isn’t the kind of pain she dreams of, delicious and sharp, _deliberate_ as only the touch of a worthy dominant can be, but it settles her, reminds her where she is.

Salma has always been troublesome. She unnerved the matchmakers who came to her family home on her fourteenth birthday, when they found her too busy with her vials of river water and patches of toxic grass, trying to determine the connection between the grey scum on the river and the persistent cough that plagued its banks. When she washed her hands and appeared before them, her black hair tied back, they beckoned her into the family room, where a space had been made on the carpet.

“Salma,” they’d said. “A submissive?”

“Yes.”

“Kneel for us, then,” one of the matchmakers said. “Let us see your form.”

Salma had looked at them, with her wide, dark eyes that her mother always said were far too keen, and turned on her heel.

Now, she gasps as a delicate hand clenches in her hair, dragging her out of the water. The queen, Tiana, the woman who chose Almyra despite the blood of Alliance lords running through her veins, who they say was called to it by one of the rare storms that thundered over the mountains. Tiana, with her warrior’s body, the firm swell of her muscular arms, water swirling around her breasts. Young, like Salma, drawn to Almyra, swept up in the current. She rakes sharp nails down Salma’s chest, presses close to her, teases her slim fingers along Salma’s inner thighs.

“I want her,” Tiana says, over Salma’s shoulder, and Salma shivers as Malik presses up against her other side, pinning her between them. “Malik.”

“She’s already ours,” Malik tugs her head back by the hair and bites down on her neck, hard enough to break the skin. She cries out—she’s never known the skin could be so sensitive there—and Tiana teases a finger between her legs, makes her shudder. “Isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Salma says. She’s always been meant to serve the kings and queens of Almyra. She’s known this for years, known that if she found them, whether in the arrogant prince who walked through her camp years ago or in a wandering peasant in the desert, she would finally have a reason to kneel. She would show them that just as a submissive earns their place, so too does a dominant earn submission, a king earn his country. 

And they _will_ earn it, these two young, desperate creatures, who murmur into her heated skin and make her shudder and moan in the warm air of the springs. They are untested, still, wyverns too young for flight—but Salma, who has felt the pulse of Almyra under her own hands, who can no more bend her knee to an undeserving ruler than the mountains themselves, will see it done.

***  
In hindsight, maybe they should have waited out the storm. 

Queen Hilda of Almyra, Wielder of the Silver Axe, Quartz-Eyed, hates few things as much as she hates being cold. And here she is, ill-dressed for the weather like she was on that long-ago day she and Claude first came to Fhirdiad to make peace between Almyra and Fodlan, shivering while Felix Fraldarius, Duke and king’s consort and beloved submissive of her husband, King Khalid of Almyra….stands in the middle of the snowstorm with his arms out and _laughs_. 

His dark hair, so long it’s halfway down his back (in the rare moments when it’s untangled and combed out), is whipping around his angular face, which has only grown sharper and more handsome over the years. He looks like some creature out of one of Dimitri’s stories, except maybe not, because no one in those depressing Faerghan fairy tales ever _smiles_. 

“Where is there _so much_ of it, ugh,” Hilda snipes, nowhere near as entranced as Felix by the snowstorm in which they have suddenly found themselves. They’re supposed to be heading to Fhirdiad to meet up with Hilda’s brother, Holst, there on a diplomatic mission from Kupala with his consort Balthus, to collect Aurora to bring her to Almyra for schooling. 

Felix, who’d been visiting with Claude, agreed to accompany Hilda from Claude’s parents’ villa in Northern Almyra. At first things had been fine, even though Hilda really would have preferred _Dimitri_ there -- his enjoyment of service was far more suited to her than Felix’s fighty need to be put in his place constantly. Claude loved that, and sometimes she liked making Felix do what she wanted with her nails on his back or her wicked ball-chain flogger, but mostly? She didn’t have the patience. 

The journey started out with a nice sail across the inlet sea, and that part at least had been fun; Felix was from a shipping village, and he knew his way around a boat and the rough-voiced sailors who inhabited it. This was a new shipping route between Northern Almyra and the coast of Fraldarius, and the crew a mix of weathered Almyrans and equally weathered Faerghans, and seeing them work together had been quite something. 

Claude would be thrilled, anyway. And Hilda learned a few new key Almyran phrases in the Northern dialect, which she would have to run by Salma to make sure were correct before she hurled them at Claude just to see what he’d do. Felix knew the sea-chants of the Faerghans, many of whom hailed from Fraldarius and called him _your grace_ with the utmost respect, seeing not a pampered noble but a warrior tried and true, a son of the sea just as much as any of them. They let him work the rigging and help with the sails, stripped down to his trousers and simple undershirt, hair tied back, and practically considered him a brother after the third day at sea. 

And Felix, lulled into a quiet place thanks to the hard physical work and mild discomfort that seemed to be his favorite thing, sat on the deck at night with her, told stories about women who turned into seals, women who sang sweet songs and lured men to their death on the rocks, women with the upper bodies of a human and the lower half of a fish that would steal a man and drag him under just out of spite or something, she wasn’t quite sure about that last one. 

“Sure seems like you Faerghans have problems with women,” Hilda said, back up against the decking and feet braced on the rail like Felix, feeling the rise and fall of the ship as it cut through the waves. 

“Faerghans have problems with everyone. There’s a lot of stories about men being just as bad.” Felix cut a glance down at her, his mouth quirking. “I can see you as a siren.” 

“You ever heard me sing, Felix?” 

“Yeah,” Felix said, and laughed; free and unfettered like ship sails in heavy wind. “That’s why I’d throw myself on a rock, to get away from it.”

Hilda had hit him in the shoulder and he’d slipped his arm around her, letting her rest her head on his shoulder while they sniped like old friends talking over a campfire. 

But then they’d made land, and things had gotten a little less friendly, fast. 

They’d seen the old manor house that had burned in the war, restored now and a seat for local government. They would have been welcomed there in all due ceremony, Hilda as a queen and Felix as a duke and consort of their king, but instead they headed toward Fhirdiad, eager to miss the worst of the snowstorm that chased their ship and seemed to be hot on their heels. 

Yeah, that didn’t work out so well. Storms, like everything from Faerghus, are all-consuming and have terrible timing, like that party guest that shows up two hours early and eats the appetizers while telling you they’re allergic and then throwing up all over your floor and stealing a bottle of your best wine when you go to find someone to clean up their mess. 

“Ugh,” Hilda calls, watching Felix turn in the snow like a dancer in one of Aurora’s favorite storybooks. “Commune with the snow gods on your own time, Fraldarius, I _hate_ this.” 

Felix tromps through the snow with glee, his pure joy an affront to Hilda’s very being as he stops in front of her and dares, _dares_ to laugh. “Now you know how I feel, when everyone makes fun of me for hating the heat.” 

Hilda glares at him, pulling the hood of her cape up and saying, “Let’s just find somewhere to shelter. Maybe we should go back to the old manor.” 

Felix shakes his head. “You don’t walk into the snow. We’re better off walking with it. Less effort.” His grin flashes. “That’s your thing, yeah?” 

“My thing.” Hilda marches up to him. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius, do you _really_ want to talk to me about effort? Really? _How_ many children have _you_ birthed, again?” 

Felix just smirks and puts his hands on his hips. “I’m going to teach them to _love_ the snow, too. Just for you.” 

“Oooh!” She reaches down, picks up a snowball, then promptly hurls it at him. It’s sadly not very well assembled, and it falls apart before it hits him and Felix _laughs_ and Hilda is honestly considering either hauling off and hitting him with her _fist_ or tackling him in the snow or using all her dominance to order him to hit _himself_ in the face with a handful of snow -- her favorite option, really -- when she hears it. 

A sound, like branches cracking under boots. A whisper of voices, faint but growing louder, and Felix’s smile fades and so does Hilda’s ire. They glance at each other, both realizing they are alone in the wilds of the old Fraldarius territory -- just Faerghus now -- and it’s growing dark, and no one knows that they’re heading to Fhirdiad. Which means if someone’s coming, they’re not expected. 

Fodlan is a better place, now; Dimitri is a kind and just ruler, and the economy is growing as the old gives way to the new. But there are those who never swore oaths to any king, those who care not for whoever sits the throne in Fhirdiad or anywhere else, those who have always kept their own laws, their own ways, deep in the forests. 

Hilda was barely seventeen when she first took up a training axe and met a bandit horde with her classmates; she hadn’t thought much about them, too concerned with staying alive to think too hard about why they were there, what sort of circumstances led them to take up a life of crime. After the war it was almost unheard of to find a bandit camp; most people were too busy rebuilding to try and fuck over their fellow man. 

But with peace comes greed, with law comes lawlessness, and there have always been those who refuse to fall in line even if the line has their best interests at heart. There are insurgents in Almyra, too; she hears reports about them, disgruntled warriors who seek to fill their pockets and serve no king but themselves. 

“Well, well,” a voice huffs, as Hilda and Felix turn with their backs to each other in perfect synchronicity, hands on their weapons. “What’ve we here, lads? Looks like a right couple o’flashies got lost on their stroll.” 

“Oh, please,” Hilda scoffs. “Like anyone would go for a walk in this weather.” 

Felix, from behind her, sighs. 

***

And here the day had been going so well.

“They should consider themselves lucky,” Felix says, in Almyran, as a line of men step out from the storm, unnaturally broad in their patchwork furs. “They found the merciful one.”

“Who are you calling merciful?” Hilda asks, and Felix rolls his eyes. 

“What’s that?” one of the bandits asks. His axe is roughly-made and worn with use, the blade sharpened so often that it’s thin as paper along the edge.

“I said you’re lucky,” Felix says. “At least we’ll make it quick.”

“Or you could leave,” Hilda says, “because frankly, this is more than a little inconvenient. What am I supposed to do, wash your blood off my coat in the _snow?_ ”

“Yes,” Felix says. “That’s exactly what we do.”

“Ugh, I am _not_ greeting my brother as a blood-stained snow monster.”

“It’s like a Faerghus rite of passage,” Felix says. “Except there aren’t any wolves, this time.”

“Great!” Hilda’s shout makes one of the bandits jump back, clutching his sword. “Just great! Now there _will_ be wolves, because you _had_ to—“ an arrow whistles towards her, and she whirls her axe to knock it out of the air. “—say that!”

Felix smiles, braced by the cold and the copper tang of adrenaline on his tongue, and howls softly.

“Enough,” barks one of the bandits. 

“Do you see that?” Felix asks, tilting his head back so Hilda’s hair brushes against his cheek. “That shadow, in the woods?”

“I swear to the fucking goddess—“ Hilda says.

“I said, enough!” Both of them glance at the bandit, who stomps towards them, brandishing his axe. “Take them, lads. We don’t need them alive.”

“I think someone’s feeling unappreciated,” Felix says.

“Go on, then,” Hilda snaps, tossing her hair. “Appreciate them.”

Felix smiles.

They let the bandits come to them, first. There are eight of them that Felix can see, one with a crossbow, the rest with crude swords and axes, and the first who swings his blade, yowling what he probably thinks is a war cry, goes down with Hilda’s axe in his chest.

“Hey,” Felix says. “That was mine.”

“Then get the next one!” Hilda says. “And stop being so _slow._ ”

Felix steps forward, light-footed in the snow like any son of Faerghus, and steps on the back of the man Hilda killed to launch himself into the air. His blade slices through bone—He can feel it as he pulls his sword free—and he steps back so Hilda can knock the man down with the butt of her axe in his jaw. Blood streaks the snow at their feet. 

Felix’s breath grows hot as Hilda offers her hand—He takes it, and she flings him around to her other side, the muscles of her shoulders flexing. He drops into a lunge and dispatches a man charging with an axe, then ducks, rolling forward in the snow, as Hilda steps up to behead the man behind him. 

“Stay on your knees,” Hilda orders, and Felix grunts as she climbs up his back, one boot on his shoulder, the other on his hip, so she can have that extra foot of space to cleave the leader of the bandits through the chest. He goes down, and Hilda daintily jumps off Felix in time for him to hack at the tendons of some poor bastard on his right. He stabs him through the back, lets him fall, looks back at Hilda as she takes down the archer. Her hair swirls around her, her axe trailing blood, the muscles of her arms straining against her coat. She could _be_ one of the Faerghus sirens, the bloodthirsty ones who make deals with mortals to walk the earth, beautiful and deadly and not quite real enough to be mistaken for a common soldier.

She catches him looking and whistles sharply, and Felix turns just in time to block a desperate blow from one of the last bandits. He falls easily, gasping blood on the snow, and Felix steps back to peer into the storm.

No one emerges from the white distance. There’s just Felix and Hilda, panting and bloody, breath billowing in the air, and Felix lowers his sword as Hilda approaches him, eyes blazing.

“Guess we missed the wolves,” he says, smiling, and Hilda slaps him across the face, hard enough to burn. He drops to his knees in the snow, and Hilda holsters her axe to drag her nails up his neck and into his hair. 

“Shut up,” she says. Her fingers are shaking, but not with fear, and she pulls him up by the face to kiss him hard, holding him there until she’s bitten his lips raw and left him gasping, drawing in sharp gusts of cold air. “We’re finding somewhere warm, and you’re going to strip down and thank me while I ride your _stupid_ face.”

Felix, still panting slightly, steps back just enough to bow. Hilda slaps him again, regards him with eyes that burn with battle-fire, and grabs him by what’s left of his braid.

She drags him that way, past the dead bandits sweating blood into the snow, past a line of high pine trees, fingers clenched in Felix’s hair. A cabin starts to take shape against the snow, a high door and shuttered windows that Felix finds vaguely familiar, but Hilda just makes a soft sound and tightens her grip on Felix’s hair, pulling him towards the door.

“Thank the goddess,” she says. “Felix. Get the door.”

Felix looks at her, but she doesn’t release him, so he strains and hisses at the pain in his roots as he reaches for the handle. The door swings open, and Felix would straighten in alarm if he weren’t currently half bent over, leaning into Hilda’s fist.

“It’s our hunting lodge,” Felix says. “Father took us here when we were children, sometimes.”

“So there’s like a fifty-fifty chance there isn’t a fireplace,” Hilda says, “because you’re all basically ice people.”

“If you believe the legends, sure.”

Hilda groans and throws Felix into the cabin. It’s dark, likely unused since well before the war, and Felix can just see the outline of deer heads on the walls, skeletal antlers branching out to cast spidery shadows on the ceiling. But he doesn’t get much of a look at it, because as soon as Hilda slams the door shut against the howling wind of the storm, her hands are on his coat and she’s kissing him again, drawing him down to the floor. He grabs her wrist and she yelps as frozen metal cracks under his touch. She pushes the shards away and slaps Felix so hard he moans.

“The fuck was that,” she says, and pushes him down to the ground. He stays there, breathing hard, blinking into the darkness as cloth rustles above him. Then she’s straddling his shoulders again, pulling at his hair, marking his neck, and when she settles over him, riding his mouth with a muttered curse and her hands pressed to the floor, Felix can barely keep up. He tries to work her with his tongue, but Hilda doesn’t seem to care—She rocks forward, smothers him, takes her pleasure of him without bothering to rise when his legs shift and his heels bump against the floor, when he gasps for breath against her, dizzy and desperate.

“Stay still,” she says, and rides him hard as she comes, thighs clenching around his face. When she finally lets him breathe, Felix takes in great sobbing breaths, his eyes glassy in the dark.

“Now go start a fire,” she says, still crouching over him, long hair framing her shadowed face. “I didn’t just kill all those men to die of frostbite in the middle of nowhere, Faerghus.”

***  
Ew, that was so _unnecessary_. 

Hilda is pacing, still irritated by the fact she and Felix were just jumped by bandits -- _bandits_ , ugh, why were they even still a thing? -- but at least she’s stopped shaking. Riding Felix’s face helped, but the skittering, restless awareness is still there, ticking at the back of her skull and making her suspicious of every sound and rustle. 

It’s too dark to even think about going back out, and whatever, this place is stale and musty-smelling but there _is_ a fireplace, and while she’s not certain she’s here for that pile of gross blankets on the -- one, singular -- bed, at least the place warms up a fraction when the fire starts. Or would, if the fire ever _started_. 

“Weren’t you a mortal savant?” Hilda snaps, tapping her boot. “Fire is like, level one reason magic, isn’t it?” 

“The wood’s not dry enough,” Felix says, glancing over his shoulder. His mouth is still wet, a little shiny from her and that’s...well, something. It’d be nice, maybe, if she wasn’t going to freeze to death in a Faerghan hunting cabin. 

“I hate this country. Outlaw living here,” she huffs, and narrows her eyes when she catches Felix’s small little smile before he turns back to the wood. Of course the wood doesn’t want to light. Why would it? It’s probably part Fraldarius, too. Contrary to the _fucking_ end. 

Felix manages to scrounge up some dry kindling and an old book, and normally Hilda would think about how her daughters would cry bloody murder to hear about a book being burned, but since Hilda just committed bloody murder times way too many, she’s just glad for the small amount of warmth and the brightness the pages add as they burn. It’s probably a stupid book, anyway. 

She drifts over to the fire, which really isn’t that warm, and holds her hands out. Felix tosses something in the hearth and the fire flares up bright for a lovely moment before it starts to gradually fade. There’s even a cold draft coming through the chimney. 

“Oooh!” She stomps her foot in annoyance. “Fuck this country.” Without any way to get warm, Hilda turns and grabs Felix’s hair, pulling it sharply. 

Felix’s gasp is loud, and it warms her more than the pitiful excuse for a fire, destroyed by a Faerghan wind that comes straight from the coldest pit in hell. She blinks, then smiles at Felix, considering. “Felix,” she says, stepping in close. “I’m in a _very_ bad mood.” 

“Yeah. Not really a secret.” Felix glances at her, eyes lingering on the blood staining her dress, her skin, her _hair_ , ew. His look is appreciative as they run over her arms. “I haven’t seen you fight that much. You’re not bad.” 

“Not _bad_? Excuse _me_ , Fox-cub, but just because I don’t spar all the time for _fun_ like _some_ people, that doesn’t mean I -- what?” She narrows her eyes at him. “What is it?” 

“You called me Fox-Cub.” 

“Yeah, we’re speaking in Almyran again, didn’t you notice?” She switches to Fodlan, her brain rushing to catch up. “What about it? You wanna call me She Who Slays With the Silver Axe?” 

“You used the end of it to break someone’s jaw,” he says, like maybe she forgot what happened less than an hour ago. 

“Sure. It’s called using the weapon to its fullest potential -- you’ve never brained anyone over the head with a sword?” 

“Yeah. I have.” He’s still watching her, eyes glittering like low light of the pitiful fire but somehow warmer than the embers. “I didn’t see you much, in battle. During the war.” 

“The war was a million years ago,” says Hilda. “I’m a queen. A _mother_. I’m not fucking around with these bandits when I -- Felix, is this getting you hot? As in, turned on, not temperature, because that’s not possible, even if it’s me.” 

He nods. “Yeah. Actually, it is. You just fight like you -- dom me. Not Marianne or even Dimitri, but me.” 

“What?” Hilda huffs a laugh, but then she considers him for a moment. “Wait, really?” 

“Yeah.” He’s breathing a bit quicker, his gaze sliding over her shoulder; not unusual, Felix never has been one for eye contact, even when they were younger. “It’s, uh. Look, I know that wasn’t -- fun, but --” 

“Well,” Hilda drawls. “I wouldn’t say _that_. Good to know I’ve still got it. The _nerve_.” She almost asks what the fuck the bandits were even doing here, but then she looks at Felix -- really looks at him, sees the averted eyes, the faster breathing, the way his face is flushed even though it shouldn’t be because, hel _lo_ , it’s freezing. 

His hands are behind his back. 

“You’re like, a step away from going under, huh,” she says, moving closer. 

“Yeah,” Felix says, voice a little breathless. “Just the, the fight. What you did after.” 

“Rode your face, you mean?” She smiles and steps into his space. “Felix, do you want me to put you under? Is that it?” She reaches out and pulls his hair, which of course came loose from the braid during their fight. 

“I -- if you want,” he says, still not looking at her.

Usually that would mean yes, but she pauses and looks him over, sees the way he’s breathing and remembers his mouth on her, how eager he’d been to pleasure her. The way they’d fought together. “That’s not what you _really_ want, though, right? I mean. You might wanna be under, but...that’s like, the second part, yeah?” She reaches out and slides her fingers in that pretty dark hair, then pulls, hard. “What is it you really want, Felix?” 

Her voice thrums with command, and when she smacks him, he moans again; her cunt gets warm and wet and she smiles in delight. “Ask me or you can fuck off.” 

“I -- rough me up,” Felix says, blushing, but there’s an eagerness in his voice that he can’t hide. “I saw what you did to them. You were -- laughing.” 

“Well, it’s funny when people think they can just walk up to me and like, kill me for no reason in the middle of the woods,” Hilda says, winding his hair around her wrist. “Assholes, I’m the queen of Almyra.” 

“Not real sure they know where Almyra is,” Felix says, and then, sort of smugly, “Or. _Knew_ where it was.” 

They’re both on edge from the fight, the surprise of it, the sheer stupid violence after years of peace. Hilda inhales sharply, because she gets what he’s after. “You liked watching me kill them.” 

“I respect how you fight,” Felix says. He doesn’t sound bothered. “I’d say the same to Claude. Dimitri. Your brother.” 

“Mm. Just admit you want the queen to go a little sadistic on you and put you in your place and ride you like a good boy, Felix.” 

Felix’s entire body shivers at that. He glances at her, just for a moment, then -- then he grins. Felix smiles more than he used to, for sure (their children are charmers) but she can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen him grin like this. “Fuck me _up_ , your majesty,” he murmurs, and _bows_. 

Hilda laughs, feeling herself beginning to edge into topspace at the thought of it. She and Felix have played together, often, but he likes more pain than Mari or Dimitri and she likes to hand it out just a little more than Claude. Or maybe she’s just, like. Louder about it. 

Either way. She gets that black hair around her fist and _pulls_ , and he makes such a beautiful sound that she smacks him again, and again. It gets her warm, and she shoves him a little toward the bed. “Take your shirt off and I’ll scratch you until you bleed.” 

“Yeah, fuck,” Felix says, hurrying to comply, and she gives a delighted laugh at how eager he is. 

“You know you can ask me for this even when we’re _not_ besieged by bandits,” she says, watching him strip. It’s definitely still cold, but he’s used to it and when he’s bare-chested she can see the flush going down his chest and his abs, and she steps in close so she can start scratching immediately. 

“I -- yeah, but I...just, uh, the fight. Made me want it. Been awhile,” he says, and that’s true though he _has_ accompanied Malik to put down a few insurgents, quietly (as quietly as Malik does anything), near the border. Insurgents who think they should be king, that Claude’s too tied up with his Fodlan family, who dislike that his heir has a Fodlan mother. 

Fuck them, though. Seriously. She scratches Felix up, enjoying every drag of her nails down his skin and the way he pants for it, makes these gorgeous sounds and just _shakes_. She grabs his hair again so she can pull him down into a kiss; he’s about the same height as Claude, and they’ve certainly kissed before, but she loves how much he likes it when she _bites_. 

He does it now and moans in her mouth; she gives him a shove back toward the bed. “Lay on your back.” 

He does it, his cock tenting his pants and isn’t that a nice little ego boost? “Is that for me, for the pain, or for the fight?” 

“All of it,” Felix murmurs, gasping when she bites again. “But it’s not like you don’t know you’re hot.” 

“‘Course I know that.” Hilda shoves him again, and he goes willingly to his back on the dirty blankets, apparently uncaring, staring at her and breathing hard while she settles on top of him. She takes off his belt and straddles him, snaps the leather and purrs, “If it wasn’t so _fucking_ cold, I could flog you with this. Claude taught me how.” She laughs and grinds down on him, thrills at his eagerness and his submission. “You’re _fun_ , Felix. Put your arms up for me and I’ll bite you somewhere it _hurts_.” 

Felix’s arms practically fly above his head, and Hilda uses the belt as a restraint to tie his wrists to the headboard. Then she leans in, teases while she grinds on his cock and bites the sensitive skin of his upper inner arm. She does it hard, then harder, slow enough that she can feel him arch and kick beneath her, still grinding himself up against where she’s wet from his mouth and her own arousal. 

“Make me -- yeah, make it bleed, please --” 

“You do sound pretty when you beg,” she tells him, and teases with her tongue, with nipping little bites that are nothing near what he wants, and she laughs outright when he growls and curses in low Almyran, like she doesn’t know what those words mean. “Gonna ride you so hard, make you come, but first I wanna hear you ask the Queen of Almyra to _fuck_ you.” 

Felix moans; she bites the muscle of his upper inner arm, her whole body flashing hot and electric, practically buzzing with the thrill of this as she sinks her teeth in hard. 

“Fuck, please, please, yeah, use me, use my cock, your -- your majesty, I -- “ 

That’s good enough for her; she bites him enough to feel the skin tear, and taste the sweet copper as she bloodies him, though it’s a tiny enough hurt. Hilda kisses him, hand on his chin, and as always her sadism tends to take a sharp turn into praise. “I see why my husband has kept you around. You kill our enemies and then you beg us to make you bleed.” She leans down and sucks on the charm that’s always hanging off his collar, and then pulls up and grins down at him. “Your queen is going to give you a gift, Felix. It’s customary to say thank you.” 

“Thank you,” he pants, staring over her shoulder, eyes gone glassy. She smacks him just because he’s so pretty, then kisses him and bites his lower lip just because of his moan. 

Hilda gets his cock free and thinks about doing something else, smacking _it_ maybe, but in the end she’s too eager for it and also, this is a lot of work. She’s already fought off like sixty-four bandits or whatever, it’s been a _day_. Felix’s cock is so hard, and all she has to do is pull her underthings aside and take him inside where she’s so ready and wet. “You did a -- good job with your mouth, so -- so make sure you fuck me just like I -- like I want, I’m a queen --” 

Felix’s arms are bitten up, one of them bleeding a little; he’s wide-eyed and thrusting up into her, almost wild, hair a tangled mess around his face. “You are, you’re -- my queen,” he says, so softly, and then -- that same smile from before, just a little quick flash of a grin. “And you’re a fucking badass with that axe.” 

Hilda laughs, smacks him just because he’s so _good_ , then rides him just as hard as she wants. She pulls his hair, smacks him, over and over, until Felix is begging her to come so he can feel it, crying out that he’s close, and she rubs herself between her legs and comes on his cock with one hand gripping his throat above his collar. She chokes him through her orgasm, drags it out -- and when she takes her hand away, he sobs out broken and beautiful and yeah, she can definitely see the appeal. 

“Please, let me -- let me come, please --” 

And HIlda digs her nails in his chest again and says, “Sure, be loud and you better say thank you,” and he bucks up so hard the bed bounces and dust mites from the gross bedding flicker and the fire is dying but whatever, she doesn’t care, for a moment the dom energy is enough to keep her plenty warm. 

She falls on top of him when it’s over, panting against his shoulder, idly reaching up for the belt to undo the restraint on his wrists. She smiles down at Felix, sweeter than she usually is with anyone but Marianne, and kisses him gently. “Thanks for having my back. You’re not bad with a sword, yourself.” 

And Felix, beloved submissive of one king and adored consort of another, wraps his arms tight around the queen of Almyra -- and laughs into her messy, sweaty, probably blood-spattered hair. “Anytime.” 

***

Dimitri Blaiddyd, king of unified Fodlan, emerges from the most unstable council meeting of his life, sighs loudly, and reties the ribbon holding back his hair. Three months of careful negotiating, and the title of Margrave has finally been dragged from the clutching fingers of Gautier the elder and passed to the somewhat bewildered hands of Sylvain. Who had respectfully announced, with the quiet gravitas of a man who has spent more time endearing himself to the people of his region than his father ever cared to, that he’ll be happy to pick a new predecessor when _he_ steps down once Gautier can function without him. The implication that the crest of Gautier would effectively disappear from the nobility sent his father into a fit that had him frog-marched out of the castle, cursing under his breath and snarling at anyone who came close. Of course. And Sylvain had left Dimitri with the fallout.

“I’m going to kill him,” he says.

“Are you?” a low voice asks.

Dimitri turns. Byleth, his old professor and current unofficial head of a clandestine operation even Dimitri doesn’t know the whole of, pushes back against the wall and almost smiles. He has a new scar under his ear, and his hair is a little less shaggy, more trimmed than it usually is after his and Jeritza’s sojourns into the dark. Dimitri nods, and Byleth reaches up to touch his hair—a gentle gesture, almost fond, an echo of the firm touch that pulled Dimitri back from the brink of beasthood so long ago. 

“You look well,” Byleth says. “This suits you. Fits you better.”

“Thank you,” Dimitri says. He starts off down the hall, and Byleth keeps pace, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Some days, I wonder if I should abdicate and let Dedue manage them.”

“I wasn’t talking about kingship,” Byleth says. “Aurora stopped by the library earlier. She reminds me of you.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

Byleth looks at him, his unnerving pale eyes searching his face. “Yes,” he says, at last. “I think so. As I said, it suits you. Fatherhood.”

Dimitri flushes at that, unsure how to respond. Byleth is not one for frivolous praise—His words are always deliberate, carefully parsed before he speaks. “Thank you,” Dimitri says. “That’s. Very kind.”

“She’s lucky.” Byleth’s mouth twists slightly. “They all are. A good father is… a precious thing. Which is why you should brace yourself.”

Dimitri frowns. “Pardon?”

Byleth nods down the hall, where a small group of people are clustered near a patch of stonework. Sylvain’s mop of red hair is readily visible, and when Dimitri approaches, his cloak swirling across the floor, Sylvain looks down at the two children in front of them and whispers loud enough for his voice to carry across the hall.

“Don’t look suspicious!”

Oh, goddess.

“Dimitri!” Sylvain says, as Dimitri rounds the bend. Sylvain presses himself up against a tapestry held up by his back. The ends of it flop over his shoulders, and he smiles a touch too brightly. 

“Father!” Aurora smiles, too, hands behind her back. She’s wearing her new suit, modeled after Felix’s favorite training clothes, with little white tassels on the sleeves. “Aren’t you looking well!”

“UNCLE DIMI.” Ciel, Sylvain’s six year-old son, hasn’t yet learned how to speak below a roar, and his strawberry-blond hair is shoved under a blue knitted cap. He flings himself at Dimitri’s legs. “LIFT ME!”

Dimitri smiles down at him and holds out his arm, and Ciel wraps both hands around his bicep. Dimitri straightens, and Ciel dangles from his arm with a grin, feet swinging.

“Aw, look at that,” Sylvain says. “You know what, you all should go find Mercie, maybe you can—“

“AURORA PUNCHED THE WALL,” Ciel booms, and both Aurora and Sylvain wince. 

“Cici!” Aurora hisses. “You promised not to tell!”

“It was an honest mistake,” Sylvain says, still holding up the tapestry, which is starting to slip.

“Probably,” Byleth says.

“UNCLE BYLETH CAN I SEE YOUR KNIFE,” Ciel shouts, trying to swing from Dimitri’s bicep. Byleth shrugs and digs under his jacket, and Sylvain, more of a mother hen than a wyvern with her eggs, lurches forward from the wall with his hands out.

“Oh, no we don’t,” he says, grabbing Ciel by the middle.

“It’s not as sharp as it was yesterday,” Byleth says, as though that changes anything. Aurora gasps and covers her face with both hands as the tapestry, abandoned at last, slowly drops to reveal a half-foot hole in the stone wall.

Dimitri stares at Aurora. Sylvain stares at Dimitri. Ciel tries to reach for Byleth’s knife.

“I didn’t _mean_ to,” Aurora sobs, and Sylvain and Dimitri both exchange looks of pure panic as Aurora howls into her hands. “I wanted to, wanted to show Ciel the, the punches Uncle Ashe sh-showed me and then I—then it—“ She looks at the wall and lets out another wail of anguish. “I ruined it!”

“Babyheart,” Sylvain says. “I told you, it’s fine.” He glances at Dimitri. “Right, Dima? Tell her it’s fine.”

Dimitri crouches a little so he can get on Aurora’s level, and Aurora throws herself into his arms. “Here, now,” he says. “It’s alright. This is normal. It’s part of, part of being a Blaiddyd. You know how sometimes, when you get older—“

“I don’t _want_ to wear a bra!” Aurora sobs.

“What,” Byleth says.

“Oh saints,” Sylvain says, covering Ciel’s ears with both hands.

“Ah. Aurora.” Dimitri draws back. “I don’t think—“

“Mama said,” Aurora wipes her face with her hand. “She said when you get older, your body changes and you have to wear a bra and you get _pimples_ and it’s natural and I don’t want to! I’m not ready for puberty yet!”

“I. This isn’t.” Dimitri wishes the earth could swallow him while. “Darling. Sweetheart. This isn’t puberty. When you punched the wall, did your arm feel all… hot? Electric, like the air before a storm?”

“Sort of,” Aurora says. “Does this mean I’m getting boobs?”

“What. No. No, goddess, you aren’t—“ Dimitri looks back at Sylvain, who is starting to smile, now. “It’s your crest, darling. Sometimes, when a child is born of the Blaiddyd line, they have a crest. It’s like… a power, like your mama’s magic, or how I can throw my spear through solid rock, sometimes. Remember that?” She nods. “That’s crest magic. You have _mine,_ which means you are… stronger than some. You’ll have to use that power carefully, but it isn’t a bad thing, and it doesn’t mean you’re going through. Through puberty.”

“So I don’t have to wear a bra,” Aurora says.

“No,” Dimitri says. “I mean, that is to say, not yet.”

Aurora blinks hard. “Oh. Okay. I guess. So I’m… I’m not in trouble?”

Dimitri sighs and hugs her again, and her arms wrap around his neck. “No, darling, you aren’t in trouble. How about we all visit with Uncle Byleth and Uncle Jeritza—“

“DAD, WHAT’S A BRA,” Ciel booms.

Everyone’s head swings towards Sylvain, in unison. Sylvain looks stricken.

“You should. Ask your mother,” he says, after a moment.

_Coward,_ Dimitri mouths. Sylvain places a hand on his chest as though wounded, and Dimitri smiles sidelong. “Okay,” he says, getting to his feet. “Tea with Byleth and Jeritza, then?”

“Yes, thank you,” Aurora says. She holds out a hand to Byleth, who blinks in alarm before he takes it. “You’ll hold my hand, please,” she says, “because I’m a lady.”

Dimitri sighs. “That’s her mother speaking, I’m afraid. Sylvain, are you coming?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvain says. “I—“ Byleth’s eyes narrow imperceptibly. “Uh. Sure. Why not.”

Mercedes and Jeritza are waiting for them in the tea garden, an enclosed greenhouse at the edge of the castle that blooms with out of season flowers, and Mercedes smiles and rises to kiss Sylvain on the cheek. Ciel climbs into a chair between her and Jeritza, his hair falling in his eyes, and looks up at his uncle.

“UNCLE EMILE,” he shouts.

Jeritza stares down at him somberly. “Yes.”

“CAN I SEE YOUR KNIFE.”

“Yes,” Jeritza says.

“ _No,_ ” Mercedes and Sylvain say, at once.

“It is just a blade,” Jeritza says. “It is not poisoned.”

“You have poisoned ones?” Aurora asks. Jeritza looks at her and nods slowly. “Can _I_ see?”

“How old is she,” Jeritza says.

“Eight,” Dimitri says, “but I don’t think—“

“Then yes, that’s fine.”

It takes a minute to restrain their various children _and_ gently assure Jeritza that knives are not meant to be drawn over tea, and they’re just settling down with cake they’ll regret later when a servant comes rushing in, looking slightly frazzled, to drop to a knee at Dimitri’s side.

“Your majesty,” he whispers. “It seems your visitors from Alm—“

Aurora nearly upends her plate with a cry. Mercedes catches it just in time, and Byleth scoots his chair in as Aurora goes racing around him, hurriedly brushing back her hair with her hands. “Mom! Papa!”

Dimitri twists in his chair. Hilda and Felix stand at the doorway to the greenhouse, Hilda’s hair a frizzy mess, Felix’s tangled and loose on his shoulders. Their coats are flecked with the rust-red of old blood, and Aurora, who has latched herself onto Felix, pulls away to look them over.

“Oh, Mom,” she says. “What happened to _you?_ ”

Hilda flips her hair back, and Dimitri slowly rises from his chair as her eyes sparkle and her chin tilts, imperious and proud.

“Everything,” she says, and Felix shrugs a shoulder. “Absolutely everything.”

***   
Jeritza von Hrym reaches up and carefully touches the black spikes of his collar. Next to him, Byleth -- ever sensitive to his moods -- reaches out and carefully places a hand on his shoulder. 

It’s been years since he knelt for Byleth and let him fasten the collar around his neck, claiming Jeritza -- and his demon -- for his own. And he’s better about crowds, now, with the Death Knight’s bloodlust satiated by fighting the strange shadow soldiers who live below. 

He’s not quite used to children, though. His nephew, that small little creature with strawberry-blond hair and big eyes, who calls him by the name only his sister -- and Byleth, sometimes, when he’s put Jeritza under enough and he’s feeling quiet -- ever uses, has never shied from climbing in his lap, hugging him, treating him like a beloved uncle and not the monster Jeritza knows himself to be. 

But then, Byleth is part dragon and a former goddess, and Ciel doesn’t seem to know or care about that, so. 

The little princess, Aurora, is hugging Felix -- Jeritza sits up a little straighter, already thinking perhaps of a spar, later -- and the woman, the pink-haired queen of Almyra, is telling a story about bandits in the snow. She isn’t trying very hard to use gentler language around the children, which makes his sister’s husband sigh and Byleth give the slightest chuckle next to him, so quiet only Jeritza surely must be able to hear it. 

“Look, they were _bandits_ , Dimitri, what do you want me to say? They didn’t present a pamphlet with their objectives and stated principles of banditry, they just tried to kill us,” the queen of the foreign land says, tossing her hair, patting the little Fodlan princess on the head. Jeritza cannot keep straight if she is the child’s birth mother, but perhaps her hair would be pink. No, that’s right, this child came from the Fodlan King and the woman who likes Jeritza’s war horse. 

“There are so many of them,” Jeritza says, softly. “And they’re all very loud.” 

Byleth stands and bows politely. “Queen Hilda. If you like, Jeritza and I will look into this for you.” 

Jeritza’s heart races at the thought. He is jealous of this queen and her blood-soaked hair. “Yes,” he says. 

“UNCLE EMILE, BE CAREFUL,” the little one says, climbing up in his lap. 

“Of course,” Jeritza says, idly, patting him on the head. 

Dimitri looks worried as he greets his consort, the swordsman with the cat-eyes who kneels for his king in public even though the King of Fodlan is no dominant. The duke is also blood-stained, but his eyes are not wild and there’s even a smile there for Dimitri. A dominant has seen to him, then. The pink-haired queen -- Hilda. They’ve been there, to her court in Almyra, gold and gleaming beneath the heat of the sun. 

He likes it there. Perhaps he and Byleth will visit again, soon. 

His sister climbs to her feet, moving smoothly over to greet the queen and the duke. “Were either of you injured?” she asks. 

“Hardly,” the queen scoffs. Jeritza’s eyes are drawn to her, because she is a dominant, and because the recent violence falls gently around her like a haze, like dawn. “They weren’t starving or like, downtrodden, Dimitri. They were just dicks who wanted to steal shit they didn’t own.” 

“Mom,” the little princess says. “That was lots of bad words.” 

“It sure was, darling,” the queen says, picking her up. “Because Mom doesn’t like the snow _or_ assholes who show up and --” 

“Why don’t we go see about a bath for Mom and Papa?” Dimitri says, biting back a laugh as he reaches for his daughter. 

“Okay, I guess so,” Aurora says, but she gives her mom a hug and then says brightly, “I’m glad the assholes didn’t hurt you, Mom and Papa. I punched a hole in the _wall_ ‘cause I got Daddy’s crest, but it doesn’t mean I have boobs yet.” 

The queen gives Dimitri a _look_ , and the king flushes and leans in to kiss her cheek, seemingly not bothered by the mess there. “I’ll explain. I’m sure you want a bath.” 

“About an hour ago, yeah,” the queen says, though she seems to finally notice they have an audience. “Teach, hi,” she says, to Byleth, using her husband’s nickname for Byleth. “You should come visit Almyra soon, Claude would love to see you. No snow, either.” 

Her eyes slide to Jeritza, and she nods. He inclines his head, politely, and shifts his gaze after a moment. It has taken him some time to acknowledge other dominants that aren’t Byleth or, occasionally, his sister. 

“Ciel, wanna come say hi to Uncle Felix?” 

Ciel, who inherited both Mercedes and Sylvain’s affectionate natures, gives Jeritza a big hug and pulls back to beam at him. He looks very much like both of them, this tiny person his sister brought screaming into the word, with her sweet smile and her husband’s loud voice, and eyes that are eerily similar to Jeritza’s own. 

“I’LL COME BACK, DON’T WORRY,” his small nephew says, and Jeritza does not worry, so he pats him on the head again and gently helps him get to the floor. He races over to his father, who holds his hand and patiently walks with him over to say hello to Felix.

Jeritza sips his tea, losing track of a lot of the conversations since most of them don’t involve him. Felix does ask him how long they’ll be there, and if he wants to spar, which of course he does. Jeritza and Felix fought on opposite sides of a war more than ten years gone, but there is respect there, between them. Felix calls him _Professor Jeritza_ , sometimes.   
Mercedes takes her little one out to see the horses, and Sylvain goes with the king and his retinue so Jeritza and Byleth finish their tea in silence. 

“Do you think the bandits are those we rout in the dark?” Jeritza asks, sipping at his tea. A honeyed almond blend, his favorite. 

Byleth shakes his head. “No. These are just men. Hilda had the right of it. Peace doesn’t mean the world will never know violence, even if it’s petty in nature.” 

“Hmm.” Jeritza considers this. “Do you think any yet live?” 

“The ones who attacked Felix and Hilda?” Byleth rarely uses anyone’s titles, too long a mercenary to care overmuch about such things. “I doubt that, you know how Felix is with a sword and Hilda is as fierce with her axe.” 

“Yet you offered, as if maybe you thought there would be others,” says Jeritza. 

“It made them feel better. Dimitri will worry. And there is no harm in checking, when we take our leave,” Byleth says. 

“My sister told me she is pregnant again,” says Jeritza, eating more cake, for it would be silly to let it go to waste. “Due in the winter.” 

Byleth smiles. “Sylvain must want to tell Felix.” 

Jeritza thinks about this, as Byleth sips his tea. “Do you want a child, beloved?” 

Byleth chokes on his tea. 

Jeritza stares at him, rather taken aback. “Byleth.” 

“I -- ah.” He coughs, shaking his head. “Didn’t expect that. Do _you_?” 

“I do not -- I was only asking because so many of them have children, now. Your former students.” 

“That’s true. It’s the way of things, isn’t it? And I don’t know. I haven’t ever thought about it, really. Children grow up in homes, don’t they?” 

“You didn’t,” Jeritza points out. “And it would have been better, for me. If I had not.” 

“True. Hmm. I -- don’t know if I can have them,” he says, carefully, touching his chest. All these years after the war, when Byleth refused the position of archbishop to stay with Jeritza, and Rhea left to slumber somewhere sacred and unknown, his heart never has beaten, not once. “It would have to be you, and I’m not sure...I don’t know that I am like Dimitri and Claude, content to share. You’re mine.” 

“Yes.” Jeritza touches the spikes on his collar. He has only ever wanted Byleth -- he and the Death Knight, both -- and he did not know if he could take a woman as he would have to, to get them with child. Even if Byleth would not mind it. “I am. It was only a question. I had never asked.” 

“A child would be a lot of work. I like these children, because we can leave them and go back out into the quiet.” 

“A child of ours would be quiet,” Jeritza points out. “Simply because we are.” 

“It doesn’t always work that way,” Byleth says, with a smile. “Sometimes people’s children are nothing like them, or talk where they are quiet.” 

There’s a crash from somewhere up above, and a shriek, followed by a couple of childlike giggles and what sounds like running wet feet. Byleth raises his teacup. “And children are children. Even the quiet ones.” 

At that moment, he rises smoothly from his chair and walks toward the stairs leading up to the upper floor -- the royal residences, Jeritza knows -- waiting while a small naked wet child comes dashing haphazardly down the stairs and tumbles….right into Byleth’s patient arms. 

“Let’s take you back upstairs,” Byleth says, solemnly, to Ciel. 

“I RAN AWAY FROM BATHTIME,” Jeritza’s nephew proclaims, proudly. 

“I see that,” Byleth says. “But it’s dangerous to run with wet feet.” 

And Jeritza watches while his dominant, his beloved, the man he still sometimes dreams about killing in the quiet, dark, blood-drenched dreams he shares with his mostly-quiescent demon...carries his small wriggling nephew up the stairs, back to the family waiting for him. 

Maybe instead of a child, they’ll get a hunting dog. More useful. Probably quieter. Jeritza sips his tea, in the silence, alone. 

***

“And the knight said, _Behold, young prince! I am the orch-orchestrator of your misfortune, bold and terrible as the blood red dawn over the darkened seas!_ And his heart ached as though struck by a blade through the chest, for only through betrayal could the prince be kept safe.” 

Aurora, dressed in a long, billowing blue nightgown with Dimitri’s cloak wrapped around her shoulders, practices her dance steps in the small sitting room while two cats twine about her feet. One of them has a missing leg, and has to hop a little to keep up, but they both scramble after Dimitri’s cloak as it drags along the floor.

Dimitri, who is unpinning his cuffs in the bedroom, smiles as Aurora lifts her book high in one hand and bows genteelly with the other. Felix leans back on his chair, feet propped on the bed, and watches the cats out of the corner of his eye.

“ _Fiend!_ gasped the prince,” Aurora says, hopping out of one of the cats’ path. “His eyes shone like crystals in the light of the moon, and his abs glistened mournfully.”

“What,” Felix says. Dimitri stops midway through untying his eyepatch.

“Never again shall he hold his dear, sweet knight under the jasmine,” Aurora reads, and when Felix makes a strangled sound and tries to lurch out of his seat, Dimitri lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s fine,” Dimitri says. “It’s one of Ashe’s—He wouldn’t give her anything risqué.”

“I know Ashe’s taste in literature, Dima,” Felix says. “It doesn’t matter if holding is all they do, that stuff is full of romantic garbage—“

“Yes, princes and knights betraying each other and falling in love. Complete garbage, I’m sure. Not at all like our lives,” Dimitri drawls, and Felix scowls. “I’m sorry, dear knight. Do go on.”

“Mom’s taking a while in the bath,” Aurora says, closing her book with a snap. “I thought we’d have a sleepover or something.”

Dimitri hangs up his shirt on a rack in the closet. “I thought you were too old for sleepovers.”

“Yeah, but,” Aurora picks up the three-legged cat, Thomas, and hugs him to her chest. “I don’t know. A lot happened. Mom got attacked by bandits. And we’ve been by ourselves a lot, so. You know.”

“I missed them, too,” Dimitri says, and Aurora buries her face in Thomas’ fur. He flashes Felix a bright smile, and Felix _blushes,_ over fifteen years and still moved by something so small. Dimitri, his nightshirt still only half buttoned, leans down to kiss him on the temple. “Your mother’s visiting your uncle for the evening—She should be back in a few hours. You know how Uncle Holst can be.”

Aurora walks over to the bed and drops Thomas on it before she clambers up herself, still trailing Dimitri’s cloak. “Papa. How many bandits did you get?”

“It’s never a good idea to count, Aurora,” Felix says. Aurora frowns a little. “You know your mother and I could handle ourselves out there.”

“Oh, yeah.” Aurora scoots over on the bed as Dimitri climbs in, and she settles down next to him the way she used to when she was younger, letting him wrap his arm around her shoulders. She bundles herself up in Dimitri’s cloak and looks down at her knees. “You know I have Daddy’s crest, now.”

Felix sets his knife on the rack over the door—which is still just out of Aurora’s reach—and climbs into bed on her other side. “Yes, I know. Congratulations. You know, when Dimitri manifested the crest, he was about your age. He cracked an entire skating pond with a rock.”

“I said I was sorry,” Dimitri says, as Aurora grins in delight. “And it was a small pond.”

“Excuses.”

“I’m getting much better at skating, too, Papa,” Aurora says. “But I haven’t cracked any ponds.” She sits there for a minute, her breath ruffling the fur of the cloak. “Papa. I’ve been thinking. You know how Mama had me and Miri and Mom had Amir and Laila and that’s normal and natural and Uncle Sylvain was lying when he said babies come out of the snow in eggs?”

“He said what,” Felix says. Dimitri sighs.

“Well. I asked Aunt Annette and she said babies are made from the facts of life, and I need to ask you because she just knows about magic, and Aunt Ingrid said it’s unnecessary and then Uncle Dedue got all quiet and Uncle Ashe kept coughing.”

Dimitri and Felix exchange a slow look.

“Your mother should be in soon enough,” Dimitri says.

Aurora scowls. “If you say it’s reading, I’m running away to live with Uncle Byleth,” she says. “ _He’ll_ tell me.”

Felix makes a faint, broken noise in his throat. “Well,” he says. “You know.”

“You know wyverns,” Dimitri says.

Aurora’s eyes narrow into slits. “Yes.”

“You know how Altaira had an egg?” Dimitri says.

“Uncle Sylvain already _told_ me the egg story!”

“It’s like what the chickens were doing at the summer house,” Felix says, and Aurora goes silent.

“What he means is sometimes, a mother and father—“

“Or father and father—“

“Or mother and—“ Dimitri covers his face with both hands. “Sometimes people, ah, make love, which is like, like when you, you remember Dad’s talk about inappropriate touching? They do that, but they, like it, because they’re adults, and some adults do and—“

“Sometimes,” Felix says, before Dimitri can sink into the mattress and straight on into the underworld, “two people have the right plumbing, and they don’t use a contraceptive charm, the person with a vagina can have a child.”

“What does plumbing have to do with anything?” Aurora asks. “And what’s a contr—what’s a charm?”

“It’s a bracelet or a necklace,” Dimitri says. “It stops you from having babies unless you want one. Your mother wears a silver one, remember? With the dolphin charms?”

“Oh.” Aurora looks down at her knees again, then up at Dimitri. “I’ll ask Mom. I don’t think you or Papa know how to make babies, either.”

Felix groans faintly and sinks under the comforter.

“And Mom doesn’t _have_ a bracelet,” Aurora says, after a long, mortified silence. “So I think you’re making it up.”

Dimitri goes still. Felix’s red face emerges from the sheets again. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

“Mom. She wasn’t wearing a bracelet.” Aurora leans over Dimitri to grab a book off the end table and props it up on her knees. “I always check, ‘cause her jewelry’s so pretty. But she wasn’t wearing one at all, especially one with dolphins.”

Dimitri looks at Felix, whose face is frozen in a rictus of panic. “Felix. You didn’t…”

“I. We. I think she was.” Felix stares at the ceiling.

“ _Felix._ ”

“You two are ridiculous,” Aurora says archly, turning a page as Felix covers his face with his hands and Dimitri, unable to contain it any longer in the face of Felix’s stricken expression, bursts into silent, helpless laughter. 

***  
Despite Aurora’s eagerness to see her siblings -- especially Laila, given how the girls are basically best friends even if they, of course, fight like sisters -- she of course grows sad when it’s time for them to leave Fhirdiad. 

Hilda is not sad, she _hates_ this place; her children have sworn it’s nice sometimes in the high summer, warm enough to swim outside and still have a fire and be cozy at night. But every single Goddess-damned time Hilda’s been here, regardless of season, it snows. She thinks, rationally, that Faerghus must have known all the unkind things she’s said about it over the years and is going out of its way to prove her correct. Out of spite. 

Spite-snow. That’s totally it. 

But of course, it makes her heart ache a little to watch Aurora cling to Dimitri and hide her tears in his cloak. Laila, who is every bit a hellion and who inherited Hilda _and_ Claude’s flair for the dramatic, Goddess help them all, would probably cry loudly and hit something, but Aurora sometimes tends to try and hide her pain away, going somewhere inside like her birth parents tend to do when they’re upset. 

Hilda absolutely thinks about the children as hers, whether or not she gave birth to them, but it’s still not possible to ignore the biological implications of birth parents on their many wonderful, trying, adorable, impossible, blessed, much-loved offspring. And Aurora has her father’s earnestness and her mother’s stoic determination to not show her pain, and it always makes Hilda want to gather her up and smother her with kisses and praise and tell her how she’s wonderful. 

Aurora also clings to Felix, who she hasn’t seen very much of in the past few months given he’s been with them in Almyra while Aurora’s been in Fhirdiad. But this isn’t going to be a lengthy separation, given how close they are to meeting up at the summer house for a nice long visit. Which is what Hilda tells Aurora, mopey and looking sadly out of the window at the carriage and waving sadly at the fading figures of her Daddy and Papa. 

“We’re going to see them soon, baby,” Hilda says, kindly. “By the time you get home, you’ll be so busy being spoiled by your Dad and Mama and your grandparents you won’t even notice that it’ll be almost time to pack up. And then, this winter, we’re all going to go visit your grandparents up north, even Daddy and Papa! How’s that sound?” 

Aurora’s little face is a study in abject misery, but she cheers up just a bit at that. “Aunt Mercie is gonna have. A baby. In the winter.” 

“That’s what I heard,” Hilda says, smiling. “Maybe a little girl.” She laughs under her breath. “That’ll serve Sylvain right, won’t it.” 

“Why, Mom?” 

She needs to remember how clever Aurora is, and how she hears everything. “Just...just because Uncle Sylvain should really have a daughter for mine to play with, that’s all.” Aurora still looks suspicious. “I know! The next time you see Uncle Sylvain, you tell him I said that and he’ll explain it, okay?” 

“Okay,” Aurora says, brightening a bit. She’ll remember, too. She wants to know _everything_. 

Hilda smiles to herself, pleased at some mischief well managed. Let Sylvain try and explain that one to an eight year old. 

“---your baby will be born, Mom?” 

“What’s that, sweetie?” Hilda asks, glancing at her. 

“I said, when will your baby be born?” 

“Oh, I’m not -- why would you think that?” she asks, eyes narrowed. “Did Uncle Sylvain tell you to ask me that?” 

“Huh?” Aurora pushes her blue hair out of her face -- like her father’s, it never wants to stay neatly put up -- and moves eagerly to sit with Hilda so she can braid it. “No, because….” she reaches out and touches Hilda’s left arm. “You don’t have on the dolphins. And you have a vagina.” 

“Wh--what?” Hilda clears her throat, but she notices that she’s not wearing her charm. She must have taken it off before she bathed and went to see her brother when they first arrived. “I do have a vagina, that’s true, and I must have taken my bracelet -- but, how did you --” 

“I asked Daddy and Papa about babies,” Aurora says. “Daddy said you get them if you touch people inappropriately and they like it because you’re grown-ups, and Papa said something about plumbing and chickens and people with a vagina having a baby if you’re not wearing dolphins.” 

Hilda bursts out laughing. “Is that what they said, huh?” Oh, _Goddess_ , wait until she tells Claude. “Sweetie, people have babies when they do a grown-up thing called sex, which you don’t need to know about right now because you’ll just think it’s kinda gross --” 

“I won’t! I wanna know!” Aurora exclaims. “I’m gonna be the queen one day, Mom, I gotta know about babies.” 

Oh, Goddess. Hilda smiles. “And you will, sweetheart, but it’s...you know how that one time you said it was gross when you saw Dad kissing Papa?” 

“It was, though, he kissed him for a long time and --” 

“Yes, well, sex is like that, but it it’s for grown-ups and that’s why you wouldn’t want to know the specifics.” Hilda cannot believe Dimitri and Felix. This isn’t that hard to explain. “Your Daddy and your Mama, they kissed each other like that --” 

“Ew!” 

Definitely not, but Hilda continues, fixing Aurora’s braids into a twist like Marianne used to wear in school. “Well, that’s why I’m not telling you all of it, honey. But it’s grown-ups who like each other, and yes, you get babies when of them has a penis, which apparently your Daddy and your Papa just can’t say without acting like morons, and one of the other people has a vagina, and there’s science that happens inside you and then the baby grows there. And the charm is a magic charm, like my bracelet, that makes it so you can, um, do the...grown-up stuff without the science. Does that make sense, baby?” 

“More than, the. Chicken plumbers and whatever,” Aurora says. She lightly touches Hilda’s arm. “But you don’t have your charm with the dolphins, and I saw you kiss Papa like sometimes you kiss Dad, so - did the science happen, or what?” 

“Well, no, kissing by itself isn’t...I must have left my bracelet in my room,” says Hilda, blushing a little. She hadn’t realized Aurora saw that, but when she remembered how effortlessly Felix handled those bandits -- anyway. Competency just does it for her. 

“You didn’t have it, though,” Aurora says. “‘Cause I looked when you got here, you always have the prettiest things and I love to see what you have on when I haven’t seen you for a long time.” 

Hilda opens her mouth, then closes it. In her mind’s eye, she sees that night with Felix, shoving him into that frozen cabin and climbing on him, riding his face and seeing her breath and _the remnants of her birth control charm, the metal shattering before she climbed on top of Felix and --_

Hilda’s eyes go wide. She does some mental calculations. 

Oh, _fuck_. 

The science might just have happened after all. 

***

Twenty minutes after the carriage disappeared around the bed, it comes right back. 

Dimitri, moping about as much as his daughter, is astounded to see the Queen of Almyra flying like a tornado of pink hair and fury into the library, where she walks up to Felix and says, with her hands on her hips, “If the science did happen, Felix? You’re coming to Almyra until the baby is born, I don’t _care_.” 

“What,” says Felix, and then, eyes going wide and face going even paler than normal, “I -- oh.” 

Dimitri, who has his recently-departed, suddenly-returned daughter clinging to his back, starts laughing. “Oh, dear.” 

At least, until Aurora looks over at her Uncle Sylvain -- who is watching this with a growing look of amusement on his face -- and says brightly, “Uncle Sylvain, Mom said I should ask you what it means, that if you had a daughter, you’d be getting what you deserve?” 

Mercedes laughs so loudly it startles the cat off her lap, Dimitri _howls_ , and Sylvain says with an incredibly smug look on his handsome, bearded face, “I think your mom’s gonna figure it out all on her own, sweet pea.”


	7. Chapter 7

Summer has only just started to warm the grasses of the Alliance plains when Claude, called back to Almyra for a weekend of bickering with his Council, climbs down from his wyvern on the mountain next to Fodlan’s Locket. The fortress hunches behind a thick canopy of trees, and Laila, the only one of his children who could wheedle him into allowing her to ride with him, rolls out a blanket on the grass while Claude peers down through the leaves, trying to pick out the usual scouting parties pacing the perimeter.

“So,” Laila says. She opens her saddlebag and starts pulling out carefully-wrapped bundles of cloth. “What’s the big rush, anyways?”

“The Eastern province wants control over setting taxes on goods from Morfis,” Claude says. He sits, accepting one of the bundles. Altaira rolls in the grass beside them, resting her wings, and her massive tail thumps the ground, startling a flock of birds into flight. “Why do they want that, Laila?”

“I don’t know.” Laila picks onions out of her wrap. “Because they want money?”

“Close, but taxes go to the crown.” 

Laila takes a bite, watching Altaira whistle happily in the flowers. “Maybe someone knows someone from Morfis?” she asks. “And like. They’re doing it to be nice?”

“Closer. Who on the Council has ties to Morfis?” Claude grins as Laila sighs and kicks her feet in the grass. She’s used to these quizzes by now—Puzzles, she used to call them, when Claude would hold up cards representing different parts of Almyra and make her arrange them like pieces on a board, or ask her to name council members as they hopped backwards across the stones in the fountain by the main square. 

“I don’t know. Uncle Zahir?”

“No, he’s close to the noble families near the northern port, remember? The ones who fund the library?”

“Ugh. Okay.” Laila frowns. “Ophelia? But she hates Morfis. She’s from there, remember? You had me and Aurora figure it out that one time, when we had to ask them all questions and write it down.”

“Mm.” Claude opens a thermos of tea and hands it over. “And why would someone who hates Morfis want to control taxes on their goods?”

Laila shrugs. “I guess if I wanted to get back at them, I’d make it really hard for them to sell anything. Or buy anything, either, because Morfis just sells magic cloth and stuff and we can dye on our own without spells stitched in.”

“There we go. We have a councilor with a personal vendetta trying to control trade with Morfis. And it’s up to us to convince everyone else that it’s a bad idea.” He lies back on the grass and watches clouds drift across the mid-afternoon sky. “So. Tell me how _you_ would do it, Laila.”

It takes them a full day to fly to the capital. They stay overnight at an inn by the border, where Laila befriends one of the stablehands and comes running upstairs with stories of cornering a snake by the toolshed. She tosses and turns all night, elated at the thought of sitting in at Council all by herself, and Claude wakes around dawn to find her already dressed, her braid pinned up and tucked under a cap for flight. She looks so like Claude for a second, standing there in Almyran riding clothes with her mother’s eyes flashing in her round face, that Claude gets up to pull her into a bone-crushing embrace.

“You’re getting too big,” he says, and Laila rolls her eyes. “Who gave you the right to grow up, huh?”

“You sound like Daddy,” Laila says, and Claude laughs. 

She falls asleep on the flight to the capital, her head resting on Claude’s arm as he gently guides Altaira past side roads and over the low-roofed houses at the border. People below stop to stare as they pass, some bowing, one or two kneeling on the street, and Claude wakes Laila just in time for them to pass between the high towers of the university. Laila gasps in delight as they skim low over the roof, and she waves down at the people squinting up at them from the markets and artisan halls. 

Tariq is waiting for them at the Aerie, dressed smartly in his Council uniform with a long, thin cloak brushing his heels. His dark hair is longer now, like his mother’s, and pulled back out of his face with a jeweled pin. He bows to let Laila admire it, and gives Claude a blank, distant look.

“Father’s here,” he says. “Thought you should know.”

Claude nods carefully. It’s hard to tell if this is a favor or a duty, with Tariq’s gaze sliding past Claude like water, but he’ll take it anyways. Malik at his Council—particularly without Salma’s influence—can be divisive at worst, and Morfis has always been a thorn in his side. It’s going to take work to get this done without offending _someone,_ that’s for sure.

Laila, for her part, is better behaved than half the Council. She sits next to Claude with her tiara—An ancient white-gold band shaped like the horns of a wyvern at the sides, reserved solely for crown princesses—pinned up in her hair, and she watches the Council like a hawk, looking to each speaker in turn. Every now and then, she politely stands to take a pen from the dock next to Claude and writes a note to herself on a pad of paper, then nods to herself and sets it back. Only Claude can see that she’s _technically_ drawing a poor rendering of a unicorn, but to the rest of the Council, she looks every inch a future queen.

“You were wonderful,” Claude whispers to her as the Council breaks for the day. She smiles nervously, clutching her notepad close. “Go put up your tiara and we’ll have dinner in the aviary, how’s that?”

“With cake?” she asks. “It’s my first Council, so I can have cake, right?”

“Absolutely,” Claude says, and Laila’s smile widens. “Now get out of here, crown princess. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Laila goes racing off down the hall, all dignity forgotten with the promise of cake, and Claude smiles to himself as she disappears round the corner. 

“She’s coming into herself,” Malik says, from behind him. Claude turns. Malik is standing by the Council table, one hand on the back of his chair, watching Claude with a dark, unreadable look in his eyes. “You are raising her to be queen.”

“Of course I am,” Claude says.

“That is… good,” Malik says, and Claude frowns, taken aback. His father never hesitates. He doubts he’s seen him stumble over his words once in his life, but Malik pauses now, fixing Claude in place. “But you should not put all your hopes on one child, Khalid.”

Claude stiffens. “What are you—“

“You have many children,” Malik says. “That is a blessing. They are all good children, kind, clever. A little spoiled. That one, Laila, she has your quick mind, which will serve her well, but it is good to have more. You will need to prepare yourself, Khalid, should one of them challenge her.”

Ice courses through Claude’s veins. He takes a sharp breath, feels the cold settle in his core, a fierce, hard anger that rises slowly through his skin. “My children,” he says, slowly, “will not challenge each other.”

The look Malik gives him is almost pitying. “It is the nature of things. The crown, it is a powerful thing. My own brother—“

“My children won’t _kill_ each other over a crown,” Claude snaps. 

“I thought the same, once.”

“Yeah?” Claude takes a step forward. Malik remains still, resolute, watching him. “Could’ve fooled me. You were always encouraging us to fight it out. To test each other, to take it to the practice courts if we couldn’t behave at home. And it’s not like you _stopped_ Tariq, is it?”

“Khalid,” Malik warns.

“I shouldn’t have had to stab my own brother,” Claude says. His voice is low, almost a hiss. “I shouldn’t have watched him turn against us, turn against Ma, against Mom, because he thought being a full-blooded Almyran made him _stronger._ And who taught him to think strength mattered, father? Who _taught_ him that?”

“A good king must be strong enough to hold his country,” Malik says. “He misunderstood that lesson, and he paid the price.”

“With his _arm?_ ” It shouldn’t be happening like this. It’s been years. Decades. It’s over, it’s been over, they’ve all moved past it, but they’ve never really _spoken_ about it, either, and now the thought of his own children—Of Laila and Aurora, or Amir and Miri, the child still on the way—falling to the other’s hand has Claude filled with such wild, unshakable rage that he doesn’t realize there are tears in his eyes until he’s close enough for Malik’s gaze to follow them down his jaw. He jerks back, breathing hard, and pushes them aside with his fingers. 

“We both paid the price for that,” Claude says. “I know, you killed your brother. And I know you think it’s necessary, but I’m sorry you had to. Just because it happened to you doesn’t make it right for us. You aren’t your father, and I’m glad for that, you never raised a hand to us once and I _know_ the kind of man he was,” he adds, as Malik’s brows lower, “and you love us, but I’m not you, either, and I’ll dismantle the throne of Almyra _myself_ before I let any of my children kill each other for it. Do you understand me?” Malik’s face is a stormcloud, dangerous and dark, but Claude pushes on regardless, unable to stop. “ _Do you understand me?_ ”

Malik stands there a moment, still as a statue in the square, while Claude’s nails make crescent moon marks against his palm. Then, for the first time in Claude’s life, he looks away.

“We will speak of this,” Malik says, and there’s something in his voice that Claude can’t register, a tone he’s never heard before, almost soft. “When there is time.”

“But not to my children,” Claude says.

“No.” Malik steps back from the chair. “Not to your children.” He looks over Claude’s shoulder, then, and says. “It is true, your ways are not mine. Perhaps some good will come of it. Perhaps not.” He meets Claude’s gaze again. “But they are your ways, Khalid. You will bear the consequences, as all kings have done since the start of our line. Be strong enough to bear them.”

Then he’s gone, pushing past Claude to disappear out the door, where a tall, slim figure stands as though struck by an arrow in the back, his face ashen.

Claude flexes his trembling fingers. “Tariq,” he says. “I didn’t see you there.”

Tariq rests his hand on the door frame. “I came to…” He closes his eyes. Opens them. “Khalid.”

“Don’t—“

“There’s a show playing tonight,” Tariq says. “At the royal theater. I thought you and Laila might want to come.”

There’s a long, breathless silence.

“My submissive,” Tariq says. He takes a steadying breath, and Claude raises his brows. It’s been years, and Tariq has only just now put a title to the man he’s been slipping out to see in the evenings, far from the prying eyes of the court. “He’ll be playing the lead. We usually have coffee in his dressing room, after.”

Claude nods, and Tariq lets out a shuddering sigh. “Thank you, Tariq,” Claude says. “Coffee sounds nice.”

***  
Khalid is fourteen when his younger brother Tariq formally challenges him for the crown. 

He’s not entirely surprised; Tariq’s been spending a lot of time with General Iyad, a nationalist who’s never made any attempt to hide his politics about preferring a crown prince of “pure” Almyran blood over Khalid, who is half-Fodlan. Tariq, who is practically the same age as Khalid, used to be his best friend; they’d go to the market and get in trouble for wandering off, they’d swim together, visit the wyverns, exchange their favorite books and practice their letters, sitting close in the schoolroom, drawing pictures on each other’s papers. 

But then Khalid was busy with all the lessons a crown prince needed to learn how to rule, and Tariq turned sulky and jealous as only a child can when he felt neglected. It might have been fine if Iyad hadn’t swooped down like an eagle and carried Tariq off in his talons, filling his head with nonsense about Khalid being weak because of his _mother_ , when everyone knew the Queen of Almyra was called the _Wielder of the Demon Blade_ for a reason. 

By the time they were thirteen, they were no longer friends. Tariq argued with him at family dinners, prompting his mother to whisper furiously to him afterward and their father to say, over and over again, _if you wish to fight with your brother, Tariq, do it on the practice courts on your own time._

General Iyad did the same to Malik in council meetings; making sly remarks about Morfis and their poor relations with the reigning archon, implying that the Sreng were beginning to mount an impressive campaign against their hated Fodlan neighbors, and maybe Almyra should take note and actually _fight_ their enemies instead of _marry_ them, or some other thing that had Malik barely registering a snarl before ignoring it. 

He seemed to think that it was just bluster, but Khalid saw the way his brother’s eyes drifted, saw him whispering in the halls to those who were known to share similar sentiments. All at once, Tariq became distantly polite, as if Khalid were nothing to him, as if they had never slept outside beneath an open sky and made up stories about the stars there. 

And then came the challenge, on a day no different than any other, for Khalid to prove he was worthy of the Almyran throne. Delivered by his sneering younger brother with an imperious tilt to his chin and a disgusted tone in his voice, saying _you are not meant to rule, your mother should have been a concubine and mine queen, everyone knows Salma is the king’s heart._

“If you relinquish your claim on the throne, I might let you and - and your whore of a mother live,” Tariq says, all bravado, despite the fact Khalid can see his hands trembling. “As long as you leave and never come back.” 

Khalid’s mother loves Tariq. She has always treated him like a son, and _Tiana_ loves Salma, uses the same sweet name for her as their father, _My heart_. They cut their teeth on the story of how Salma became part of their family, how she was a submissive and knelt for no one save the king, how she’d been tied to a whipping post and forced herself to rise in Malik’s presence just to tell him he was wrong about something. 

“My mother is your mother,” Khalid says, in response. “That is the law.” Tariq’s birth mother is a submissive. Her children are also the king’s, the queen’s. They are brothers. It feels like someone is trying to suffocate him, take the air away and leave him gasping. 

Tariq spits at him. “The law says the king should be Almyran. You’re just a -- a mutt. And you should be put down, before you have us all bend our knees to the foreigners across the border.” 

This is not Khalid’s brother. His brother likes opera and songs and books, enjoys debates and learning about other lands and does not say things like this about bending knees and foreigners. He has never once called Khalid such a terrible word. He’s always hugged Tiana and called her _Mama_. He pretends he doesn’t like the books Khalid steals from their father’s library and reads them all anyway. 

This is General Iyad, talking through his brother’s mouth like a puppet. Khalid sighs. “You’re bending your knee to a general who is too afraid to challenge the king, so he’s having you try and do his dirty work?” Khalid is not the biggest boy or the strongest -- yet -- but what he lacks in height he more than makes up for in intelligence. “You really hate me so much that you want to kill me?” 

“Of course you think this is about _you_ , Khalid,” Tariq hisses. “It isn’t. It is about Almyra. If you were truly worthy of leading, you’d take my challenge like a man, not - not try and distract me with your constant talking.” 

“You’re doing a lot more talking than I am,” Khalid says. “This isn’t just a fight, not when it’s for the throne. It’s to the death.” He does not understand. Things have been...tense, perhaps. But he did not think his brother wished him _dead_. 

“I know,” Tariq says, and then, “Accept my challenge, dog, or be disgraced. Let the world know you for the coward your blood surely makes you. Blood will tell, you know. I will spill yours, and as king, I’ll have your mother thrown to the guards and used the whore she --” 

He doesn’t finish that, because Khalid won’t let him. “I accept your challenge. To death, then.” This feels unreal, like wading through some dream he can’t escape, knowing the waking world is somewhere close and being unable to drag open his eyes to get there. 

He does not want to die. But he doesn’t want to kill his brother, either. 

“For the throne,” says Tariq, a stranger wearing his brother’s face. 

“For the throne,” says Khalid, and bows. 

Khalid and Tariq both know that their own father was challenged by his brother, years before Malik was married to Tiana, and that Malik ended it quickly enough. As he faces his brother Khalid wonders if this will end up the same; one of them dead in the dirt, a cautionary tale or a valiant one, depending on who’s talking, on who’s listening. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Khalid says. “I’ll forget about it, if you just apologize to Mom for what you said.” 

“I won’t,” Tariq says, and they’re both unsteady, aware that this isn’t just a training bout or a chance to settle an argument. Those typically end with one of the combatants yielding, or at first blood. This isn’t going to be that sort of fight. 

“All right,” says Khalid, and makes his mind go quiet, empty. As empty as his little brother’s eyes, staring past him, unseeing. 

It is not a long fight, nor is a particularly graceful one. Khalid is quick and often underestimated because of his smaller stature; his brother is desperate but determined, tall like their father, but clumsy still with his height. Khalid sees the way he’s glancing toward the distance and says, “Waiting for your general to show up? Worried you won’t win without him?” 

“You won’t win,” Tariq snarls, and leaps at him. 

Khalid used to love sparring his brother. It was always fun to figure out ways to get in and disarm him, to tackle him, or to learn how to fall. They did this as children with wooden swords, but Khalid knows if he is to win, he has to forget that. That Tariq used to have nightmares and get in bed with him, so that Khalid could whisper half-forgotten stories Mama told about Fodlan or made-up ones that he came up with, half-asleep and drowsy, to ease his brother’s nerves. 

Tariq makes the same mistake with Khalid that he always does, when they spar; he thinks Khalid easily overpowered, concentrates more on his brother’s slighter form and perceived lack of endurance than his sly quickness, his speed. 

There is a sick sensation as his sword goes into Tariq’s shoulder. Tariq’s face is a study in horror, surprise -- and then there are tears there, quickly veiled and he gasps, “I - I did as he said and he didn’t even come,” and Khalid knows he means the General, who was smarter than Tariq and would have been fine with Khalid’s death and doesn’t much care if it’s Tariq who falls in the arena instead. 

Khalid has another brother. He’ll just go after that one, next. Spin his same lies, spill the same poison. 

Tariq is on his knees, sword on the ground, face ashen and clutching the wound gushing blood in his shoulder. He blinks up at Khalid and says, “Go on, I don’t regret it,” but there’s something in his face, his voice, that says maybe he does. 

He’s trembling. Fingers digging into the earth, gasping like he can’t breathe enough air. He’s afraid. 

_Of course he is, he thinks he’s about to die._ Khalid raises his sword. The law is clear, it is his right to behead any traitor who dares raise a sword to the king or future king -- and since Tariq lost, that’s what he is. A traitor. But he’s also Khalid’s little brother again, and even if it makes him weak like Tariq claimed, Khalid isn’t going to kill him. “You lost. Admit it. Apologize to _our mother_ and don’t ever say those things where I can hear you.” 

Tariq sways on his knees. “You’re supposed to kill me.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Khalid says, putting all the dominance he can in his voice until Tariq looks away. “I’m going to be the king, not you. Stay here while I get someone to see to your arm.” 

He is, of course, gone when Khalid returns with a palace physician -- not Salma, because he doesn’t want her to know about this, ever, if possible. It will break her heart to think her son raised a sword against his brother, but when they still cannot find Tariq past dark, Khalid knows he will have to tell the king what has happened. 

He stands before the throne, voice quiet as he recounts what happened with as little detail as possible. “My brother, Tariq, challenged me for the throne.” He almost winces when he hears Salma gasp from where she is kneeling on her cushion between his parents, but he pushes on. “I won. He was injured, but when I went to find a doctor he -- he vanished.” 

“A doctor cannot cure a beheading,” Malik says, stony-faced.

Salma is crying softly, trembling. Tiana leaps off her throne and cradles her, whispering, hand on Salma’s hair. 

“No,” Khalid says, forcing himself to meet his father’s eyes. “He’s been...misguided. Someone forced him into it, and I --” 

“The why of it is not important,” Malik says, rising to his feet. “You are saying you showed mercy, and he fled instead of answering to his father, the King, for his attempt to challenge you.” 

Khalid nods. Salma eases away from Tiana, struggling for composure. She looks as if it was her heart that took Khalid’s blade, not her son’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lord Khalid,” she says, and it’s all wrong, Salma calls him _dragonlet_ as does his father, sometimes, when his mood is good. Just as Tariq is Tiana’s son, Khalid is Salma’s. His heart thumps painfully in his chest. 

But Khalid is a good son and a good prince, and he knows what is expected. “I am sorry that I do not know where he is. I should not have left him.” Khalid meets his father’s gaze with his own, though it is difficult; Malik’s dominance is a tangible thing, heavy in the room like a storm. “I won’t apologize for showing mercy. He’s misguided.” 

Malik looks as if he’s about to say something, and Khalid dreads whatever it is going to be; he could easily pronounce a death sentence on Tariq, behead him himself for his failure. But before Malik can say anything, there’s a rustle and Salma rises to her feet, walks to Malik and stands before him. “Find him,” she says, quietly. “Khalid is correct. Our son’s mind has been poisoned. But please, my lord. Please find him for me.” Her voice trembles, but she does not back down. 

Khalid has heard the story about how Salma stands for Almyra, always; a touchstone, a compass, if the king has lost his way. Malik has a temper, is called by his aging aunt _Malik the Tempest_ as he was when he was a child, and while Khalid’s father is not violent as a weak man would be, he is still sometimes caught up in the storm of his own emotions. 

_She’s our heart because hers beats only for this country and its people,_ Tiana said,once, watching Salma with adoration and love. _It is no easy thing to stand up for what is right, my darling boy. Remember that._

Khalid remembered it today, when he stepped back and showed mercy. He hopes his father will do the same, now. 

“You will see to it that Tariq stops this foolishness,” Malik says, voice tight with anger. “This mercy will not be granted a second time.” 

Salma only nods, and Malik strides toward the door, boots clicking against the tile. When he’s gone,there’s a breathless moment of silence before Tiana rushes to Salma and wraps her tight in her arms; Salma sinks to her knees, shaking. Her sobs echo harsh and ugly, heartfelt. 

Khalid watches his mothers as they hold each other, and then he turns away, presses his hands to his face and starts to cry silently, tears running through his fingers and dripping onto the tile, onto boots still stained with his brother’s blood. 

***

Tariq knows what it is for a wound to fester.

He’s known it for years, known it since Khalid, since that—that weak, emotional—since his—

Tariq stops. Feels his heartbeat thump against his fingers, the slick heat of blood down his arm. Pushes his stumbling feet forward.

He’s known it since his father started favoring his Fodlan son, that boy born of a degenerate line drawn to the superior strength of Almyra, who left Tariq to long, empty afternoons with nothing to do but blunt his sword in the training yards. Who spoke of being king like it was a given, like it was meant for him, like Tariq was nothing but a castoff, little Zahir a footnote in the unfolding legend of his reign. 

And Khalid had called him _brother,_ once. Like that _meant_ something, when all he’ll ever be is a spare.

Tariq leans against a fountain to wash the blood from his wound. It’s messy. Deep. He pushes back the skin and his vision goes black, patches fading and blooming as he sweats and crouches over himself in the shadow of the fountain. Slowly, he remembers what his mother says about wounds and blood and pressure, and he uses his scarf to staunch the wound, tying it as tight as he can. He bites down a howl of pain— _fuck_ Khalid, he’ll have him _pay_ for this—and forces himself to his feet.

Iyad. He needs to find General Iyad. Something must have happened—He swore he would come, said he would be Tariq’s second, strike the killing blow as is only right for a loyal general of the future king, but he never came. There must be a reason for it. At the least, he can shelter him; Tariq knows he can’t come home. Khalid may have shown mercy, but would his father? Malik, the man who killed his brother at Zahir’s age, who made a Fodlan refugee his queen?

But General Iyad, he would understand. He’s kind, thoughtful, proud of the man Tariq has become, the blood that runs in his veins.

He stops at the lodging house where General Iyad likes to stay when he’s busy with palace work and doesn’t want to return to his estate beyond the city limits, and pounds on the door. 

The door opens, and General Iyad appears, just as tall as Malik but more polished, trim, with bright yellow eyes and the faintest scar along his brow. He looks down at Tariq and smiles, and Tariq’s stomach twists.

“Ah,” he says. “So it is done. Come in, we have much to discuss.”

“No.” Tariq clutches his arm. “No, I. I lost.”

Slowly, Iyad draws back. His warm, welcoming expression shifts, like a mask melting off the face of a wooden marionette, and Tariq feels suddenly cold, a tight, hard lump of panic lodged in his throat.

“I, It was Khalid, he stuck me, and he—you said you would come.” Iyad’s gaze is impersonal and lifeless as a doll’s eyes, and Tariq falls back before them. “You said…”

“You see,” General Iyad says, nodding to Tariq’s arm. “There it is. Proof of his weakness. He should have killed you.”

Tariq can’t breathe around the lump in his throat. “But you didn’t. Didn’t expect me to.”

“ _Damn_ that weak-willed Fodlan son of a whore,” Iyad spits, and for a second, Tariq almost corrects him, says that’s his _brother,_ his _mother,_ but then he remembers those words spilling from his own tongue and just stares, a sea breaking apart on a shore he can’t cross, a sapling broken in a storm. 

Iyad wanted him to die.

“Fine.” General Iyad whirls on him, and Tariq stiffens, fingers clenching on his scarf. “Tell your father, then. Tell him he should not have crossed me. Tell him he has two sons yet to lose.”

“I.” Tariq wonders if it will do any good if he goes to his knees. “I did what you said.”

“Now do it again,” Iyad snarls, and slams the door in Tariq’s face.

Tariq drifts. He wanders from Iyad’s house in silence, keeping to the backstreets, into the heart of the city. There, in an alley overgrown with desert ferns, he kneels, retches until nothing is left but bile, and sobs like a broken thing over his wounded arm. He doesn’t want this. He wants. He wants Khalid to be true, to be a pure Almyran like he should be, for Tariq to come home and find Khalid sprawled on his bed with a book he stole from their father’s library, _Come on, Tariq, it’s got beheadings and dragons and everything._ He wants his mother to fix his arm and his—for Mama to—

He bends over the ferns again, scratches his arms, holds his hair until the pain brings him back to himself, reminds him to breathe. He needs to move. They’ll find him soon, if he doesn’t, and he can’t go back to Iyad.

Slowly, his breath hitching and his arm burning like an open flame, Tariq gets to his feet.

He finds a bar. A quiet one, near the entertainment district, where no one thinks to look beyond his tall frame and haughty dominance, and tries to scrub the blood off his clothes in a basin. He orders a drink and tucks himself into a corner, watches the patrons slip in and out of the door, lost in a haze of color and sound. He doesn’t know if he cries. His head aches, and his arm throbs, and after a while a barmaid gently asks him to leave, so he totters out the door and into the next bar that will have him.

He’s somewhere on the third or fourth bar when the actors come in. There’s a whole troupe of them, all in their twenties and thirties, raucous and grinning like they’ve managed to drag down the sun between them, and Tariq leans on his good arm and sweats through his tunic as he watches them.

He hasn’t touched his arm in a while. Doesn’t want to. Probably doesn’t need to, anymore.

One of the actors breaks away from the group, smiling, and makes his way towards the wash room. He stops by a partition and sags a little—He’s broad-shouldered with a beard that’s a little too wild for Tariq’s liking, and his smile fades as soon as his back is turned.

“Spirits save me from dominant thespians,” he says, and startles a little as Tariq chuckles. His brown eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Hello, there.”

“Don’t mind me,” Tariq says, or he thinks he says, but the man’s brows lower, and he slides into the chair opposite, his large body hunched as though he’s trying to make himself smaller, less threatening. 

“You’re looking a little rough around the edges, young friend,” he says. It’s a slang term, something they say in the slums, meaning _teenager._ Someone not yet grown. “Can I see that arm of yours?”

“No,” Tariq drawls.

“Must’ve been a nasty fight,” the man says. “I’ve never been stabbed myself, unless you count the time I played the puppet in the Cat and the Sky Queen, but that was a trick blade, and I—“

“I saw that one,” Tariq says. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his head swims, heavy on his neck. “You were the. The puppet?”

“Ah, yes, hard to recognize without the makeup,” the man says. “It’s Aziz—You’ll find me on the posters one of these days. Woah. Easy.” He stands, and Tariq feels the heat of a hand on his good shoulder, holding him up. “Young friend, I’m no expert, but I think you may need a doctor.”

“Your voice is. Very good,” Tariq says. “Saw it with my, with my brother when.”

“Hey. Hey, now.” Aziz brushes a warm hand over his cheeks. “It’s alright. Don’t worry. You’ll be alright. Cry if you need to—I’d be a wreck if it was me. Hey! Hey, can I have someone over here? I’ve got a kid with—“ Tariq hisses in pain as the scarf shifts, and Aziz pulls a face. “Oh, no. Okay. Okay, you’re fine, it’s just. Can you feel your hand, kid?”

“What?” Tariq tries to focus, sees honest brown eyes, a worried crease in a plucked brow.

“I don’t know,” Aziz says. He’s looking aside—someone’s behind him, blurry and indistinct. “I found him like this, it’s all the way down his arm. What? No, I don’t know what he looks like, he looks like a boy, obviously, just—Yes. Kid? Hey, friend?”

“Mm.”

“I’m going to need a name,” Aziz says. “Who your family is.”

“Don’t know,” Tariq says, and he can feel the tears, now, hot as fire on his clammy skin. “Tariq. I’m Tariq.”

“Shit fuck damn motherfucking _shit,_ ” Aziz whispers, and Tariq smiles, faintly. Aziz says something, presses Tariq’s good hand, and disappears into the growing mist. Tariq floats there, panting softly, until something booms in the bar like thunder and half the blurred shapes in the distance drop to their knees.

“ _Where is he._ ”

Malik appears from the mist like a demon out of legend, radiating dominance and rage in equal measure, and Tariq knows this is it—He’s been found, he’ll be killed here on this barroom floor, a wretched failure of a son, a prince, a dominant. He slips out of his chair, crashes to the ground—Someone shouts his name. Aziz. The actor. Tariq stares up at his father and waits for the blow to come.

Slowly, Malik drops to a knee. Tariq winces, but all he feels are calloused fingers, the warmth of his father’s hands under his back, his arm heaving up his legs. Tariq hangs there, limp, tries to lift his injured arm, and Malik raises it with such care that Tariq wonders if he’s already dead.

Perhaps, in the end, he’s only worth anything as a corpse. He thinks of Iyad’s sneering face and tries to cover his own, turns his shoulder from the shocked stares of the bar, and sobs like his heart is breaking as Malik carries him out of the mist and into the cold evening air.

***

His mother gives him poppy. Presses it to his mouth as soft hands stroke his hair, waits for it to dull the pain, to send him adrift in a dark ocean. Leather slides between his teeth. Voices. The world shifts. Breaks. He can’t feel his arm.

He can’t feel his arm.

***

Someone is speaking above him. Someone is still petting his hair— _Mama,_ he thinks, he knows the touch of those fingers, which pressed to his forehead when he sweated out the flu, patted his cheek, pulled him in for crushing, tight hugs that lifted him off his feet no matter how tall he became. He wants to jerk away, but his body is too heavy, and he just lies there, listening.

“What is this nonsense you’re saying.” His father’s voice, tight and hot with fury.

“I’ve failed.” His mother, he knows this, it’s his mother’s voice, broken with tears—

“Shh,” Mama whispers, touching his forehead. “Be still, little prince.”

Little prince. She used to call him that, when he was—

“Shh.”

“I allowed my son to be corrupted,” his mother says. “I couldn’t turn him back, I thought it was a phase, that he would see sense. You deserve—“

“Do not tell me what I deserve,” his father says. “This failure is all of ours. I will not lose my heart to this.”

“Baby,” Mama says, and her gentle hands brush his cheeks, trailing through the tears. “My baby, my sweet boy…”

He sinks into the dark again, into the dull, throbbing pain of his shoulder, and the voices are drowned by the roar of a distant sea.

***

Malik kills General Iyad while Tariq sleeps, wrenching him bare-handed to his knees before the council and half the court. Tariq hears the story, later, of how General Iyad trembled before the might of the king’s dominance, how Malik broke his neck swiftly, quietly, with only a hoarse, unheard whisper spoken into his ear.

Tariq lies there, when Zahir tells him, touches the empty space where his arm should be, and says nothing.

***

Tariq and Khalid do not speak to each other for a year and a half.

***

It grows easier. A festering wound, when severed, still aches, but Tariq finds ways to distract himself from the echo of what he used to have. He builds strength in his remaining arm, teaches himself how to fight again. He quietly passes the rite of manhood, celebrates the transition from a childhood he long ago sacrificed and smiles blandly at the submissives who jostle for his favor. He takes a place on his brother’s council. He remembers to breathe. To eat.

When he calls Tiana _Mother_ again, he does not deserve the smile she gives him.

One night, he disappears into the entertainment district a second time. He walks past Iyad’s old lodgings—A cafe, now, popular with the university students—and seeks out the bobbing lanterns that hang from the awning of the opera house. The opera house itself is just as he remembers it from those nights he used to sneak out with Khalid, spending their spare change on candied almonds and wood carvings of scenes from the opera. He takes his seat in the royal balcony, this time, and leans on the padded railing.

A man steps out onto the stage. Broad-shouldered, bearded, beautiful. He bows to the crowd, then turns and bows to Tariq’s balcony, and Tariq holds his breath, arrested by this man bathed in the light of the stage. Then, the man begins to sing, and Tariq remembers that there is more than just the wound, more than the cleaving, more than the echo of fingers that once trembled on the hilt of a sword. He covers his face as the music builds, and presses his forehead to the railing, shoulders shaking. 

It’s the best opera he’s ever seen in his life.

It only takes a few words in the right ears for Tariq to find himself backstage, after, standing at a dressing-room door wreathed with flowers and gifts. His own hand is empty when the door opens, and the man who stands there looks at him a moment, brown eyes wide, and breaks into a smile.

“Prince Tariq,” says Aziz.

“Aziz,” says Tariq. “I…”

Aziz watches him. He’s an older man, maybe forty or so, by Tariq’s guess, and while Tariq is sure he still hasn’t felt the bite of a blade or even touched one that wasn’t a prop, he recognizes something in Tariq’s gaze and takes a step back.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” he says. “Please. Come in.”

Tariq does.

He sits on a rickety chair and watches as Aziz wipes off his makeup, brushes back his short hair, takes off his glittering stage jacket. He watches him move around the room like he’s always lived there, and doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until Aziz smiles back.

“You look better,” Aziz says, after a while, pouring them a cup of tea from a kettle warming over a candle. “Do you feel it?”

Tariq stares at Aziz’s soft hands, uncalloused by the touch of a weapon. “I think so. I might.” He meets Aziz’s gaze. “I could be.”

Aziz sets down the tea. There’s another silence, but it’s warm, comfortable, nothing like the tense, hesitant quiet of the palace, and Aziz crosses the room in his lovely black suit and his polished shoes. He gets to his knees at Tariq’s feet, and when Tariq leans in to kiss him, he smiles so broadly and so unguarded that his jaw aches with it.

“Yes,” Aziz says. “I think so, too.”

***  
The opera is wonderful for precisely the length of time it takes Claude to realize it’s about his parents. 

Which is in the first five minutes. Of a two-hour opera. In which he’s forced to sit next to his enthralled nine-year-old daughter, who is leaning forward in her seat, eyes wide, immediately dazzled by the handsome singer who is portraying her beloved grandfather on stage. 

Not that Laila gets that, really; all she cares about is the handsome man who is big and tall like her Daddy, singing loud enough that it echoes off the walls of the theatre, about his love for a woman crowned with stars and born in a storm, and the dragon that took shape and captivated them both. 

“Oh, Dad,” Laila breathes. “Maybe before I’m the queen, I wanna be an _opera singer_. Do you think I could. Sing that loud?”

Tariq laughs softly beside him, and Claude -- who can’t hide his face or slump down in his seat because he’s the _king_ and they all know he’s here -- plasters a hopefully not manic smile on his face and says, “I -- you’re pretty good at loud, baby,” and Laila beams up at him like he just promised her the leading role. 

When they get to the part where the King of Almyra and the stormborne demon queen kiss in the rain, Laila claps her hands together and cries out in delight, “Now they’re gonna. Read books, right?” 

Claude turns his head and hisses to his brother, “Really, _this_ is the opera you wanted us to see?” 

“It’s the only one that was playing while you were here,” Tariq whispers back, like he did long ago when they huddled down in the cheap seats during the matinees and sharing sweets while trying to figure out if any of the singers were good enough to play _them_ in the opera they would surely commission about their brave exploits. 

Claude hasn’t thought about that in years. The candied almonds that left his fingers sticky. The little wooden carvings that he kept, wrapped so carefully in silk, would look at sometimes in his room at Garreg Mach and not know what he was supposed to feel.

At least Tariq looks abashed and equally uncomfortable with this performance. No wood carvings of this one, then. If they even still make those. 

“Dad,” Laila murmurs, when intermission happens and he is thankfully spared the recreation of his fictional parents having sex in a tent, “I know we’re here ‘cause we’re s’posed to meet Uncle Tariq’s submissive but can we, can we, can we meet _that one_ who’s singing real loud, he’s big and I _love_ him.” 

His daughter has a childhood crush on his brother’s submissive. 

Great, because watching an opera about his parents needs to be weirder, definitely. “I think we can, yes,” Claude says, helplessly. Tariq slipped quietly out of his seat about five minutes before intermission, probably to go warn his submissive that his niece is suffering the agony of her first innocent hero-worship crush over him. 

While he’s playing a fictional version of Claude and Tariq’s father. 

The intermission is short enough that Claude feels comfortable escorting Laila out to meet a few of the opera patrons; she charms them all, of course, with her mother’s big bright eyes and sweetly-voiced tactlessness, along with Claude’s own disarming smile, made more honest by the fact hers reaches her eyes and, if he’s got anything to say about it, always will. 

That conversation with his father still hits at him wrong, like banging your elbow against something metal. Jarring and unpleasant without being painful, exactly, but not something you’re in a hurry to replicate. Even Felix, a masochist through-and-through, curses like a sailor when he stubs his toe. 

_That’s not fun pain,_ he’d explained once, in his very Felix way. _It just surprises you and gets in the way and makes you want to punch a wall._

But there’s no time to dwell on it, what with making pleasant small-talk with the opera attendees and then hurrying back to their box when the lanterns flicker, because Laila will murder him in his sleep if she misses the beginning of the part about the plagues and the dragon. 

Tariq at least is suffering along with him for that part, considering it’s recounting how Salma met Malik and Tiana -- the names are different enough, but it doesn’t _help_. Laila, who knows all the bits and pieces of her grandparents story and is too clever by far, leans in and whispers excitedly, “This is just like Grandma and Grandmom and Granddad!” 

“Gods,” Tariq chokes, pressing a hand to his face. “We should have waited. Next month. It’s a tragedy. Better, probably.” 

Laila, who thinks her uncle is overcome by the drama of the story, pats him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Uncle Tariq,” she says, kindly. “It’s just a story. Everybody’s always okay at the end of those. It’s a rule. Mama told me so.” 

All at once, Claude is filled with a love so fierce he can’t contain it; he thinks about that conversation with his father earlier, about that day he stood trembling in the practice courts with a real sword and his real brother, real blood and a story that might not have ended happily at all. Thinks about his children as some characters in an opera, a tragedy of broken families and festering resentment, thinks about Dimitri and Felix and how badly that could have all ended. Thinks for the first time in a very long time about Edelgard, resting quiet in a tomb in Enbarr. Hubert, Ferdinand. The people who’d loved her. Believed in her and her story. Wanted the happy ending and got nothing. 

Claude turns and pulls his firstborn daughter close, shaking, holding her tight. “I love you so much. If you want to be an opera singer instead of a queen, sweetheart, then you go right ahead.” All his children will have happy stories. Claude refuses to allow for any other possibility. 

Laila goes very still, then huffs like any kid annoyed by her parent and pushes his shoulder so he’ll let her go. “Dad, you’re being embarrassing,” she says, in her mother’s voice, but she leans in against him and puts her head on his shoulder to watch the end of _this_ particular story, which does indeed have a happy ending. 

He glances over at Tariq, who is staring straight ahead at the stage, and Claude wonders idly if it’s too late for them, or if watching an incredibly awkward semi-biographical opera about their parents’ love story is as happy as it’s ever going to get. 

***  
Claude’s thoughts turn decidedly less melancholy as he watches his daughter’s starstruck expression when she meets the singer -- Aziz, who is of course Tariq’s beloved -- and squeaks out, “HiI’mLailaILovedYourSingingYou’reAReallyGoodDragon” in one breath, so adorably flustered that Claude has to turn and hide his laugh in a cough. 

His brother does the same, and they share the sort of amused smile that they’ve only found again through their mutual fondness for Claude’s ridiculous children, so, there’s that. 

“Why thank you, Princess Laila,” Aziz says, and he is indeed a very big man with a kind smile, and then he presents her with a small stuffed dragon wearing a ribbon and says, “Your uncle said you were fond of them.” 

So that’s what Tariq went to do during intermission, probably; give the dragon to Aziz to win over his daughter, like he would even need to try. But Laila shrieks in a totally un-princess like way, flings herself at this new person who just moved up the ranks of Favorites and settles happily with her new toy while Aziz changes and then goes to pour them coffee. 

Claude sips his and thanks Aziz, who seems not too terribly flustered to have the king in his dressing room. 

“When Tariq said you were to attend, I, ah. Worried the subject matter might be too. Hmm. Well. Personal, given it’s….loosely based on people you know.” 

_People you know_. Like, their parents. 

“He left that part out,” Claude says, shooting his brother a grin. 

Tariq is in the chair across from Claude, with Aziz kneeling at his feet. Aziz must be at least ten or so years older than Tariq, but honestly, Tariq’s always taken himself just a little too seriously and Aziz looks like the kind of person who gets far more youthful as they age. Claude likes him, he decides. He wonders how they met. 

“You should bring Father to the next performance, you know he’s in town,” Claude says, just to watch his brother squirm. 

“I don’t think you should do that,” Laila pipes up, from where she’s pretending to give her stuffed dragon coffee. “Grandaddy is really nice but he’s loud sometimes and that might distract Uncle Aziz from singing.” 

Aziz smiles at the honorific and Tariq turns a bit pink, which is an all-around delight. “If Laila has adopted you, that means you should probably meet the rest of the family,” Claude says. 

Tariq frowns. “Khalid --” 

“Oh, it’s been, what, ten years or something? More?” Claude shakes his head. “I have other children you can bedazzle, they all like the theater.” 

“Amir cried when me and ‘Rora tried to make him watch the play we wrote,” Laila adds. “But I think it’s ‘cause he was ascared of the sound effects.” 

“Well, they can be very jarring,” Aziz says kindly. “What was your play about?” 

“Dragons,” Laila says, immediately. “And also. Horses and birds that turn into, into. Unicorns. That have magical powers and can fly to Daddy and Papa’s house real fast. It’s far away where it snows,” she informs Aziz. “But Amir’s just little. I don’t think he _gets_ culture.” 

Claude has a sudden, vivid image of a nine-year-old Hilda Valentine Goneril saying the same thing about Holst, _I don’t think he gets culture_ , and tries not to laugh. 

“I would be honored to see your play,” Aziz says, solemnly. “We need fresh voices in the theater. Very important.” 

“Cool, ‘cause maybe, you could, I dunno. Be one of the actors. First, though, ‘Rora should prolly hear you sing, ‘cause she’s got _opinions_ and I guess you gotta make her like you, too. I’ll tell her she has to, though, ‘cause you’re _Almyran_ and I’m gonna be the queen here, so, she’s gotta listen to me about that stuff. Right, Dad?”

“Well,” says Claude. 

Aziz glances at Claude and winks. “I am...pleased that the, ah, future queen of my country is so. Interested in the arts.” 

Laila beams. “I love art! I’ll draw you a picture. Probably of a dragon. Dad, can Uncle Aziz come visit us? Also, ‘Rora likes horses more than dragons. In case you want to get her a toy so she likes you, but probably --” 

“Laila,” Claude interrupts. “You better tell your dragon about all the other stuffed animals he’ll have to meet when he gets to our house. Like we did on the way here, when I told you all about the council?” If his daughter chatters to the stuffed dragon, they can have a conversation. Probably. There’s a decent chance, anyway. 

Laila gives him a dry look that’s all Hilda. “Dad. I’m not a baby,” she says, even though Claude has it on good authority that she _has_ named all her stuffed animals and puts on elaborate dramas with them when she’s alone. “But Uncle Aziz, can I try on your capes? The ones on the rack?”

“Of course,” Aziz says, and Laila lurches for the shiniest one, covered in blue glass beads and painted feathers. She disappears beneath it and laughs.

“She’s a handful,” Aziz says, leaning back against Tariq’s legs. 

Claude, who has never seen his brother be affectionate with anyone, ever, watches as Tariq pets Aziz like he’s something precious. “She is. My kids are all, uh. Spirited.” 

Their talk turns to easier things, as Claude gets to know this man who is important to his brother. Aziz is quick to smile, to laugh, and despite his profession his voice is soft and there’s very little artifice to be found in him; perhaps, Claude thinks, there is a draw for his brother in being with someone who can escape into being someone else for a while, but always return so easily to himself. 

Or maybe he’s just into big, brawny submissives who like to kneel at his feet and have his hand in their hair. Gods know that’s certainly true with Claude and Dimitri. 

Aziz is actually very opinionated about arts and funding, and while Tariq seems a bit concerned at the discussion of taxes and expanding the arts district, Claude doesn’t mind it at all. He likes a good debate and he agrees about art being important, and he’s so wrapped up in the discussion -- and probably part of it is the coffee -- that he misses Laila getting up, yawning, and going immediately to her uncle to climb into his lap. 

Laila’s affectionate, and despite their complicated history, Claude’s brother has never been anything but wonderful with his children. He makes room for Laila on his lap, and it’s nice to see Tariq sitting there with Claude’s daughter drowsing against his shoulder, his hand carding through Aziz’s hair while he talks with Claude about the possibility of an Almyran traveling theater troupe doing performances in Fodlan. 

“Uncle Tariq,” Laila says. “My mom, she said one time. That if you have a question, you should ask it. Do you think that’s right?” 

“Sure,” Tariq says, clearly relaxed. 

Oh, no. Tariq has walked right into a trap and doesn’t even know it. 

“And, and. Mama, she said one time that you shouldn’t talk about people’s backs from behind.” She pauses. “Maybe that’s not right.” 

“She probably meant you shouldn’t talk about people behind their backs,” Tariq says. 

“Right, ‘cause you should talk to their faces so they can see you and stuff,” Laila says wisely, missing the actual meaning in a way that is too cute to correct. Also, that was definitely Marianne who taught her that. Hilda loves talking about people too much to ever tell her daughter not to do it. 

Laila shifts around and pats Tariq on the face. “So if I wanna ask you something, I should ask you. What happened to your other arm? Did you lose it?” 

Claude is momentarily horrified, but he really doesn’t know why - it’s a natural question, his daughter is inquisitive and curious, and she’s been taught you can always ask family things because they’ll tell you the truth. Unless it’s about babies, because Claude still hasn’t forgiven Dimitri and Felix for making Aurora think babies come from chicken plumbers who wore dolphin charms and kissed each other for longer than four seconds. 

“I did,” Tariq says, and he’s focused entirely on Laila now. “Would you like to know how? I think you’re old enough to hear the story.” 

Claude and Aziz both fall quiet, turning to look at Tariq. Claude goes tense -- he doesn’t like lying to his kids, but he also doesn’t want Laila sobbing and thinking her sister is going to try and fight her to the death in a few years. 

Laila nods. “I’m good, I’m really strong, up here,” she says, tapping her head. “That’s what Mom says about me.” 

That’s not at all what _headstrong_ means, but like Hilda’s one to talk. 

Tariq smiles briefly. “When I was a little older than you, Laila...I fought a dragon.” 

Laila gasps. “What.” She holds her new stuffed dragon to her. “Uncle Tariq! Why?” 

“I was sad. Dragons are very fierce. I thought if I could -- beat one, it would make me happy.” Tariq isn’t looking at Claude, but Claude is finding it suddenly hard to breathe. “But I forgot something about dragons, little one. I forgot that Almyrans, like us, we come from dragons. A dragon was our very first king, in fact. We’re supposed to...learn from them. Protect them. Not slay them.” 

Laila nods very seriously. “Were you scared? Was the dragon scared?”

“I was, and I...I think maybe he was, yes,” Tariq says, softly, and Claude’s heart aches, remembering how their hands were shaking, that feeling of unreality, of _is this really happening_. “Because I knew it was wrong. That if I -- if I won, it wouldn’t really make me happy. I did it anyway, though.” 

“Sometimes I eat too many candies when I’m not s’posed to and then my tummy hurts and Mom goes, ‘well, baby, what did you expect?’ -- is it like that?” 

“A little bit,” Tariq says, tapping Laila on her nose. “But I didn’t win, the dragon won. And it could have gobbled me all up, or breathed its fire on me, or thrown me in a deep dark place where it could have let me turn to bones, but --” 

“Dragons would never!” Laila gasps, like she’s auditioning for a part in Aziz’s next opera. 

“That’s right. Dragons would never. This one just, ah. Nibbled on my arm a little. To teach me a lesson. The dragon didn’t want me to slay it, but it...didn’t want to slay me, either.” 

“Of course not.” Laila’s eyes are very wide. “Is this story true?” 

“It is.” Tariq’s voice goes funny, choked with more emotion than Claude’s heard from him in years. “That’s why you should. Always listen to dragons, little one. That’s what makes us true Almyrans. That’s what will make you a good queen. We don’t -- we don’t slay our dragons. We let them show us where to go. Even if we think we know better, we have to trust that they know their way in the dark.” 

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” Laila says, tossing her hair. “So the dragon took your arm, ‘cause you were bad and tried to beat it up?” 

“The dragon took something, but it wasn’t my arm. I lost that because I was hurt and wouldn’t ask anyone to help me.” Tariq kisses Claude’s daughter on her forehead. “What I lost was worse than my arm.” 

“What did the dragon take, Uncle Tariq?” Laila asks. 

For the first time, Tariq looks over at Claude. His eyes, so like their father’s -- dark enough that you can’t see where the iris ends and the pupils begin -- are wet with unshed tears. “Something I -- didn’t know I would miss so much.” 

“Ah, love,” Aziz says, quietly. 

“Did you get it back?” Laila demands. “You gotta, ‘cause dragons are nice! And stories have happy endings! I’ll get it back for you if you didn’t find it again, Uncle Tariq,” she promises, with all the fervor of a child who believes she understands all the ways in which the world works.

“You did, Laila,” Tariq says. “You did help me find it again.” 

Claude doesn’t remember putting his coffee cup down, but he must have because suddenly it’s on the table and no longer in his hand. He stands up, crosses over and reaches out for his brother’s hand. “Laila, sweetie. Get up for a second.” 

“Okay. I don’t know why everyone’s gonna cry if Uncle Tariq found the lost thing, though.” She slides off her uncle’s lap to sit on the floor next to Aziz. She shrugs at him. 

For the first time since they were twelve years old, Claude pulls Tariq into his arms and hugs him, tight, while an old wound starts to finally heal. “I missed you, little brother,” he says, softly. “You were always way more fun than Zahir.” 

Tariq laughs wetly and hugs him back, no less fierce for doing it with only one arm -- even though, if he tries, Claude thinks he can feel the echo of the other one pressed just as tight around his back. “That coffee cup is more fun than Zahir,” Tariq says. “Even when it’s empty.” 

Claude laughs, hugs his brother tight and thinks maybe that happy ending isn’t out of the question, after all.


	8. Chapter 8

It is not uncommon for Felix Fraldarius to be followed by children.

He hosts whole parades of them, these days. This particular morning, as he steals a brief moment of peace to walk the halls of their summer home and pore over a letter from Fhirdiad, it doesn’t take more than a minute for a frantic pair of preteens to go slamming into him from behind. He grunts and stumbles forward, and the paper crumples in his hands.

“Papa,” Laila says, holding off Aurora with both hands pressed to her face. “Before you hear a thing, I want you to know that Aurora’s still figuring out her crest, and you don’t _really_ need that fountain shaped like a koi fish, do you? I mean, who likes koi anymore? They’re outdated. Uninspired.”

“Just let me own _up,_ Laila,” Aurora howls, and Laila covers Aurora’s mouth and smiles brightly.

Felix sighs and tucks the letter in his pocket. “Let’s see the damage, then.”

Except they aren’t even halfway to the fountain, which is burbling water all over a somewhat koi-shaped pile of rubble, when a miniature Claude comes charging out of the library and bumps right into Aurora.

“Oh,” Amir says. He glances from Laila to Aurora, then back to Felix. “Papa. I don’t know what they’ve told you, but Miri and I were nowhere near the kitchen this morning, and if the cheese is gone, it’s probably the goats.”

“Goats love cheese,” Miri says, sweeping out of the library after Amir. As the only one of her sisters who _enjoys_ wearing gowns outside of public events, Hilda and Miri’s grandmothers have fitted her with more dresses than a horde of princesses could ever want. She sparkles like a chest of jewels as she wraps an arm in Amir’s. “It’s a fact.”

“We weren’t _talking_ about the cheese, doofus,” Laila snaps, and Amir’s face goes carefully blank.

“Oh. Never mind, then. How are you this morning, Papa? Sleep well?”

He and Miri smile at once, and Aurora shivers.

“You two always look so creepy when you do that,” she says.

Amir and Miri turn to Aurora like clockwork dolls. “Do we, Aurora?” they say, in unison.

“Amir.” Felix shoots a stern look at his son. “Miri.”

“Come play with us, Aurora,” they say, whisper soft. Miri tilts her head. Her earrings jingle. Amir blinks rapidly.

“Ugh! Goddess!” Aurora flings her hands in the air. “Papa, _stop_ them!”

“Amir, if you give your sister nightmares, I’m locking the library for a week.” Amir gasps. “And Miri, no more earrings. Even the paste ones.”

Miri presses a hand to her ear, scandalized, and Amir touches her arm. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “There's always my secret stash of books you-know-where.”

“And how does that help _me?_ ” 

“Papa,” Amir says, dragging a heartbroken Miri after him on his arm with his best, Please-Ignore-My-Attempt-To-Traumatize-Aurora voice. “Have you given any thought to that treatise I sent you? The one about a senate of commoners?”

“Oh my gods,” Laila says, rolling her eyes. “Don’t talk about breaking down the _monarchy_ in front of the royal family, Amir.”

“The monarchy has its function in a people’s republic,” Amir says, all earnest intent. “You just need to give up all your power and land and—“

“Guillotine,” Aurora says, grimly. “What do you think, Laila?”

Laila nods.

“Guillotine.”

“The guillotine’s only for _nobles_ ,” Amir insists, and yelps as Aurora and Laila grab him round the middle. “Hey! _Hey!_ Miri, get them off me!”

“I _like_ being royal,” Miri says, and Amir thrashes as Aurora and Laila grapple him between them both. Felix clears his throat, and they all stare at him, Amir swinging gently from his sisters’ grip.

“I’m probably obligated to tell you not to cut off your brother’s head,” Felix says.

“Oh!” Laila says, cheerfully. “We won’t do that.”

“We’ll just dump him in the pond,” Aurora says.

“What?” Miri turns on them, blue hair whirling in her face. “How come _he_ gets to go swimming with you and I _don’t_?”

“We can dump you in, too, if you like,” Amir says, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of being chucked in a pond. “Once I’m done.”

“Promise?” Miri asks.

Laila looks up at Felix. “So can we go?” she asks.

Felix shrugs helplessly. “I suppose. Take off his boots first, they’re good leather.”

“See, that’s why Papa’s gonna survive the revolution,” Amir says, as he’s dragged down the hall by all three of his sisters. “He’s _practical._ ”

Felix sighs as the four of them hobble towards the stables, where they’ll have a clear shot of the pond if they don’t get distracted by the wyverns, first, and slowly pulls out the letter one more time. Felix brushes his braid over one shoulder and sits next to the broken fountain, which is dribbling softly into the drain, and basks in this rare and precious silence.

A door slams open, and the letter goes sliding out of his hands and into the fountain, where it’s promptly ruined. Felix turns, scowling, as a shaft of light glides over the hallway.

“Pa!” 

_Oh._

Valentine Glenn Fraldarius Goneril, known affectionately as Val to the world at large, is dark-haired, somewhat small for his age, and deeply, painfully sensitive. He stands at the door, hands clutched tight around a soft stuffed deer, and looks at Felix with wide pink eyes.

“Pa,” he whispers, and bursts into tears.

Marianne appears behind him, dressed for tea in her afternoon robes and soft cotton trousers, and grimaces at Felix as he lurches off the bench. “He just found out that deer shed their antlers,” she whispers.

“Oh,” Felix says. “That’s. I see.” He lifts Val in his arms, and Val, deep in the throes of a full meltdown, buries his face in Felix’s shirt and sobs.

“It’s like when Laila cut her hair,” Marianne says, as Felix gently pats Val’s back. “Or when Dimitri tried to grow a beard.”

Felix holds back a sigh. He _liked_ Dimitri with a beard, for the few short months it was just Felix rubbing his face all over him like an affectionate cat when they had a moment alone, but all it took was the sight of a little stubble to send half their children into full hysterics. He’s never seen anyone shave quite so apologetically before.

In his arms, Val shoves his stuffed deer in Felix’s face.

“Horns fall _off,_ ” he wails, and Felix jostles him a little, walking slowly down the hallway.

“They’re antlers, Val,” Felix says, “and these ones are stuck on. If they fall off, we can sew them together again.”

Val drips snot onto Felix’s shirt and hiccups miserably, still trying to push the deer into Felix’s cheek. They pass the sitting room, where Hilda rises from her seat with an _Oh, baby,_ that has Val howling again, but even though he doesn’t want Hilda to leave, he refuses to let go of Felix until they’re outside. Val blinks at the sunny fields and the adolescent wyverns clomping in the grass around Claude and Dimitri, who grip heavy leather harnesses as they put them through their paces. Dimitri braces himself on Claude’s back as one takes off, and Val watches them in sudden, awestruck silence.

“Yeah,” Hilda says. “Nice, right?”

“Want to get closer?” Felix asks Val. He tugs a cloth from his pocket—He’s drowning in cloths, now, with five children constantly discovering new messes to scrape over the walls—and wipes Val’s pink face as they walk across the grass. Val hugs him close, looking up at him with his cheek pressed to Felix’s shoulder, and Felix thinks of the child he used to be, back before the war sharpened him, chipped away at the softness until he was a chiseled stone tossed amid the flotsam of the battlefield. 

“You aren’t allowed to join the military,” Felix whispers, and Val blinks at him.

“His name’s Cod,” Val says, pushing the deer at Felix’s neck. “And he doesn’t like blueberries.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Cod for Claude, I think,” Hilda says. She sits beside them, and Val climbs halfway over Felix’s lap to flop onto her knees.

They sit in the grass and watch Dimitri and Claude wrestle wyverns for a while, until the wyverns finally tire out and start rolling in the grass, limbs askew. Well behind them, small figures fling themselves into the pond by a single, twisted cedar tree, shrieking and yelping in the still air.

“Well, then,” Claude says. He’s pleasantly winded, his shirt unbuttoned and sliding off his shoulders under thin suspenders, and Felix takes a moment to appreciate his lightly furred chest, the way his stomach moves as he breathes, the light in his eyes. Dimitri shed his shirt some time ago, and his hair flies in his face, falling free of the ribbon sliding down his back. They’re both softer around the edges now, still built like the warrior kings they are, but gentled somewhat by peace. Dimitri beams at him, and Val holds up his deer.

“Horns fall off.”

“Do they?” Dimitri leans down and examines the deer. “It seems nice and sturdy to me, little man. Is this why we aren’t at the pond with the others?”

Val looks balefully out at the pond, where Amir is pushing Miri off the cedar tree and into the water. “Big kids,” he says, a little mournfully.

Hilda pets his hair. “That’s right, baby, but you’re becoming a big kid, too.” She gives Dimitri an appreciative once-over—Felix can practically see the gears in her head turning—and lifts Val into her arms. “How about we leave these big strong men to bring the wyverns back—“

“As though you didn’t beat Dimitri at arm wrestling two weeks ago,” Felix mutters.

“And _Daddy_ teaches Papa some _manners,_ ” Hilda says, glaring at Felix. “And we get all dressed and ready for your Uncle Tariq and Zahir and Aziz to visit, yeah? They might even be bringing your grandmothers.”

Felix looks down at his shirt, which is drenched in snot and tears, and Hilda smiles.

“Didn’t I mention that?” she says, all innocence. “I got word this morning. Come on, you sweet precious bean,” she says, nuzzling Val’s face, and goes striding across the grass, Val stumbling at her side to keep up.

“She’ll probably put you on serving duty for this,” Dimitri says, and Felix scowls darkly. He helps Felix up, and Felix bumps into his chest as Claude comes in from the side, pinning Felix between them.

“You heard the queen,” he says. “Let’s bring in these wyverns.”

***

The wyverns aren’t much interested in their humans after they’re back in their pens, though as Claude presses a shirtless Felix up against the wall and kisses him, humming at the delicious feel of Dimitri’s heavy bulk pressed up against his back, he thinks he hears one of them start whistling. 

He grins against Felix’s skin, licks it, shivering at the feel of Dimitri’s cock against his ass. “Remember, Felix, when I dragged you out here and fucked you last week?” 

Felix gives a huff, fingers reaching up to tangle in Claude’s hair. “Yeah. After you teased me for _hours_.” 

“Mmhmm, I’m awful,” Claude says, biting at Felix’s shoulder. His shirt is on the ground, already messy and therefore there’s no reason to worry about kicking it aside and getting dirt on it. “You hate when I do that, I know. Dimitri, you think you could fuck me while I make Felix get himself off on my thigh?” 

“The kids,” Dimitri says, a low rumble. 

“Will not come in if the wyverns are penned, they’ll think we want them to bale hay,” Claude says, with the confidence of a man who would have done the same during the summer at their age. 

“Like you’d make them do that, you spoil them,” says Felix, as if he doesn’t. 

“Jealous?” Claude teases, thrilling -- even now, however many years and five kids later -- when he feels the charm on Felix’s collar resting on his chest. 

“Make it up to me,” Felix demands, but lazily, and the smile in his voice comes easier, these days. 

“Hello.” 

The strange voice has all three of them stopping mid-make-out, and Claude ducking under Dimitri’s arm, turning to find Teach standing there, calm as ever with Jeritza by his side, wearing that spiked collar that suits his aesthetic even if Claude hasn’t seen him in his Death Knight’s armor in a decade. 

And next to them stands a small child, though Claude isn’t actually sure he’s really seeing it because the hair on his neck raises immediately, reminding him of all Lysithea’s favorite spooky ghost stories. The little girl looks to be about seven, with green hair and huge wide eyes. She looks a little like Byleth, same spooky stare, same eerie quiet presence that says _I know too much._

“Um,” Claude says, a king more than a decade into an historic reign, with a house full of children and a family he adores, still not sure what to say to his old professor, his professor’s incredibly strange submissive and now, the ghost child standing by their side. 

“You see that, right,” Felix says. 

“See, what?” Dimitri asks. “The professor and Jeritza --” 

“And the -- is that a ghost,” Felix whispers. 

“That’s a child, Felix,” Dimitri says, with no concept of an inside voice. It astounds Claude sometimes, really, how Aurora is really just like him. 

“Hi, Teach, hello,” Claude says, shaking off the always-strange sensation of seeing a Byleth that just doesn’t age. Jeritza, fair-skinned and blond, also doesn’t look that much older. “Jeritza. And, ah….?” 

“This is Nyssa,” Byleth says. “We found her.” 

“In a cave,” Jeritza adds. 

Behind him, Dimitri makes a sound. He’s clearly trying to hide a laugh, but it sounds like a sheep being repeatedly pummelled. 

“I -- well, hello,” Claude says, recovering, and going down on his haunches to greet the child. Nyssa. “I’m Khalid. You can also call me Claude.” 

“He’s the king of Almyra,” says Byleth. 

“I know,” says Nyssa, in a voice that raises whatever hair is left lying flat on Claude’s entire body. She nods at Claude. “And that’s a duke, there, and the King of Faerghus. Do you have candy. I like candy.” 

Claude straightens, clears his throat and glances at Byleth. “I -- do not, but I’m sure my kids do, would you like to, ah. Meet them?” Protectiveness for his children wars with the sense that this little girl is deeply lonely, and honestly weird, which anyone who was rescued from a cave by _Byleth Eisner and Jeritza von Hrym_ would be. “I have five of them. You’re bound to like at least one, just statistically.” 

“Five...kinds of candy?” asks Nyssa. 

“Children,” Claude clarifies. “I have five children.” 

“That’s too many,” says the little girl, grimly. 

“Some days,” Felix says, and Dimitri shushes him. 

“It’s a good number, really,” Claude says, warming to her now that the intense _weirdness_ is...not going away, it never does around Byleth and Jeritza but at least he’s gotten used to it. “They’re out swimming. Do you...know about swimming?” 

Nyssa sighs. It sounds like bells. She glances up at Byleth. “I thought you said the king of Almyra was _clever_.” 

Byleth smiles and ruffles her hair. “He is.” 

The little girl fixes him with a stare. She’s cute, small and pale and big-eyed, dressed in a strange garment full of shiny pins and bells and beads. She’s holding Jeritza’s hand. But something about that gaze says _I have seen things_. 

“A cave, huh,” Claude says, softly. 

She nods. “A cave, Khalid of Almyra.” She glances up at Jeritza and tugs his hand. “The children, swimming? I will try.” 

“I’m sure my horde will be glad to see you --” 

“A horde?” the little girl demands. She turns to Byleth. “I thought you said the dragons were only --” 

“An expression,” Byleth says, smoothly. “Jeritza will take you to the pond, Nyssa. Remember you’re not very good in water that’s taller than you are.” He adds, after a moment, “and you’re not. As tall as you think you are.” 

“Hmph.” Nyssa huffs. “Not now, maybe. Not like _this_.” 

“The pond is --” 

“I know where it is,” Jeritza says, and without another word, they turn and walk out of the eyrie. 

There’s a moment of silence, and Byleth says, “It’s a long story.” 

Isn’t it always? 

Claude, Dimitri, and Felix -- carrying his shirt and with a nice red mark on his shoulder -- bring Byleth inside, to a surprised Hilda and a small, solemn Val. 

“Hi,” Byleth says, to the littlest of Claude’s children. 

“You remember Uncle Byleth, right, Val?” 

Val nods, presenting the stuffed deer to Byleth. “Cod.” 

“I see the resemblance,” Byleth says, very patiently. 

Val hides his face but smiles; a few minutes later he’s happily sitting on Byleth’s lap, while Dimitri pours the tea and Felix kneels at Claude’s feet. 

“We were coming out of the Agarthan city, and there was a cave,” Byleth says. “That’s where we found Nyssa. She was just there, asleep. But we don’t know anything about children,” Byleth says. “So we thought we would come here, since you have five of them.” 

Byleth has Val asleep in his lap, even though it’s been at least a year since the kids last saw him. Val, who would surgically attach himself to Felix were it possible. 

“But can we go back,” Felix says. “She was in. A cave?” 

Byleth nods. 

“Er. That’s - did you find who was responsible for putting her there?” Dimitri asks, as politely as possible. 

“Well, yes,” Byleth says, calm as ever. “She did.” 

“I -- er. She did, what?” Dimitri asks, leaning forward. His eyes are wide. He once told Claude, in all seriousness, _remember that story I told you, about the soldiers who were soulless until called to battle by the king? I think Byleth is that, but the thing that calls him is no king we would know._

“She said she’d been waiting.” Byleth sips his tea. “Did you say your parents were visiting, Claude? I haven’t seen them in some time.” 

And that’s when Claude realizes that in a matter of hours, Byleth, his collared submissive who might be possessed by a demon and their child they found in a cave, are going to be under the same roof with his parents, his siblings, his wife, their submissives, and all their children. 

Also, he hadn’t told Byleth that they were on their way, but at this point, all Claude does is sigh and say, “Yeah. Yeah, they are,” and hopes his children are at least making their new arrival feel welcome. 

***

Amir isn’t entirely sure about his new cousin.

To be honest, Amir isn’t entirely sure about _himself,_ half the time. He knows that most eight year-olds don’t read anarchist literature for fun. He knows it’s probably odd for his best friend—or, his best friend who isn’t Miri—to be the middle-aged leader of house Gloucester, with his severe hairstyle and interesting letters about politics. He even has a feeling that he might be, might be smarter than some of his siblings, sometimes, and that alarms him in a way that makes him feel a little distant and alone, even with Miri waking him up at three in the morning to steal cheese for the cats.

But still. He isn’t sure about his cousin.

“Why are we doing this?” Nyssa says, staring down at a clay pot as though it’s personally offended her. She speaks in a quiet voice, her words all blunt and hard like Papa’s, and she’s holding a paintbrush like she doesn’t really know what to do with it. Miri, who is painstakingly painting the horn of a unicorn on her mug, gives Amir a worried look.

“It’s fun,” Aurora says. She and Laila are painting watercolors by the window, squinting at each other’s easels. “And it keeps you well-rounded. You don’t do art with your… your fathers?”

“They don’t seem the artsy type, Rora,” Laila whispers.

“I don’t know. Fighting is an art,” Nyssa says. “Father…” She stops, like she’s testing out the sound of it. “Father draws maps in the dirt, sometimes.”

Aurora and Laila exchange a look. “Oh,” Aurora says. “That’s. Nice.”

“Do you like maps?” Amir asks. “I collect them, you know.” Nyssa gives him a blank, glassy look. 

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Don’t know what?” Miri sets down her mug. “Look, you gotta put the brush in the paint, first.”

“I don’t know if I like them,” Nyssa says, as Miri forcibly dunks her brush in a pot of green paint. “Maps.”

“Well,” Laila says, drawing out the word as she paints a shadow under the tree in her painting. “What _do_ you like?”

There’s a short, sudden silence. Miri looks at Amir, the way she always does when they get into trouble and need a quick way out of it. _Fix it, Amir._ Amir looks at Nyssa. She’s staring down at her pot, frowning slightly, brows creased.

“Maybe you like painting,” Amir says, quietly. “Do you know what I like to do? I make lists.” Miri rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Miri, they’re fun. Maybe you can make a list of new things you like, and you can write down if they’re fun or not. Can you write?”

Nyssa shoots him a look. “Of course I can write.”

“Well. Okay. So you can do that.” He scoots closer. “Try painting first. I’ll help. What’s your favorite color?”

Nyssa thinks about it. She thinks very seriously, the way Amir does, like she’s really going over every possibility before she comes to a conclusion. She lifts her brush.

“Green is nice,” she says.

She isn’t the best artist, really, but she’s probably never painted anything before, so Amir lets it slide when she gets black paint all over the bottom half of the pot and smears the lip with her fingers. They set the pot to dry by the window, and Nyssa looks at Amir carefully, examining him.

“Show me your maps,” she says. 

“Sure.” Amir reaches to take her hand, and she flinches for a moment, still staring, before she takes it. “Maybe you can tell me and Miri where you’ve been with Uncle Byleth and Uncle Jeritza.”

“They’ve been killing people,” Nyssa says, as Amir and Miri drag her out of the room. “Does it matter where?”

Miri sighs. “Yeah, sure it does. Like, were they pretty? The places you went? Did you look at sunsets or see cool birds or talk about the stars?”

Nyssa shrugs. The outer walls of the manor are made of brick, rust-red and draped with Fodlan and Almyran tapestries, and Nyssa trails her free hand along the rough edges of the wall as they walk. “The stars were pretty. They’re different, now. From the outside.”

“From the outside of what?” Miri asks.

Amir isn’t sure he wants to know.

It turns out that Nyssa doesn’t like maps. She doesn’t like books, either, or Miri’s magpie-like collection of jewelry, but she does enjoy stamping wax seals all over a spare bit of parchment, and when Miri suggests they go down to the barn and see the hound puppies, Nyssa shrugs a little and follows them, Miri and Amir towing her by both hands.

She doesn’t say much when she sees the puppies—They’re big, grey creatures, old enough to be a little gangly but not enough to have grown out of their oversized ears and paws. Then Miri picks up the runt of the litter and heaves him in her arms.

“This one’s yours,” she says.

“What?” Amir hisses at her. “You can’t just give dogs to people, Miri!”

“I can,” Miri says, “because I’m a princess, and besides, I _know._ This one is yours. He calls himself Champion,” she adds, in the soft, sure way she always has around animals, and Amir vaguely remembers Mama mentioning something about that, when she thought Amir couldn’t hear. It’s true, anyways, that Miri always seems to know what an animal is thinking, and if Amir were to sit her down in the middle of a field somewhere and leave her for a while, she would be bound to end up with some kind of animal in her lap eventually.

She dumps Champion in Nyssa’s arms, and Nyssa looks down at him. Champion whines and lashes her with his tail.

“Oh,” she says, in a funny, thin voice. “He’s very. Very soft.”

“Told you,” Miri says, as Nyssa stares down at the dog with wide, ghost green eyes. “I know.”

“Which is why she _needs_ this puppy or she’ll _die,_ ” Miri says, fifteen minutes later, standing in the wide living room with her hands on her hips. Nyssa is off to the side, still holding Champion, who keeps whining and trying to lick her face. Amir sighs.

“I’m not going to die,” Nyssa says. She thinks about it for a moment. “Well. I can. I think. I don’t know. Can I die?” she asks Byleth. 

Amir’s parents all turn to stare at Byleth, who is holding Val in his lap. “I think so,” he says.

“That’s not pleasant,” Nyssa says. “I distinctly remember that not being pleasant.”

“How can you remember—“ Amir starts to say, and Byleth stands, handing Val off to Papa. 

“Well, a dog might be a good thing,” Byleth says. He leans down to scratch Champion behind the ears. “We were talking about getting one, before.”

“He’s very hard to unsettle,” Miri says. “Which is good, because. You know. What you do. Which I’m not allowed to know about and obviously don’t,” she adds, when Daddy gives her a sharp look.

“They’re old enough,” Mama says, after a moment. “And Miri is right. That one _is_ a good fit for her.”

“I like him,” Nyssa says. She’s still frowning a little, but she hugs the dog close, even though her arms are starting to shake. “I like Champion. And you. And Emile. And the sunset between those two hills, that one time. And green,” she adds, and when she looks up at Amir this time, she actually _smiles._ “I’m pretty sure I like green.”

***

The house descends, very rapidly, into chaos. 

Felix is used to it, in some ways; he’s used to his children and all their various personalities, their squabbles and the way they can _shout_. He’s used to Dimitri, of course, his earnestness and his tendency to be used as a climbing apparatus for children. He’s used to Claude, smirking and winking at him with a look that’s somehow both infuriating and hot at the same time, and he’s used to Hilda being bossy and sweet in turn, Marianne’s gentle smiles and soft voice and quiet, calm strength. 

He’s used to Malik, as much as one can be used to a man whose dominance radiates like the heat of an Almyran summer, and Salma, who’s easy to be around even if watching her stare down her terrifying dominants is enough to make _Felix_ nervous. And Tiana, who always looks at him like she _knows_ something, or wants to tell him something about his mother that he does not want to hear, or like maybe she wants to make him fan her again while she tells him stories that are going to make him blush. 

The other members of the Almyran Contingent, as he thinks of them, are Tariq -- Claude’s half-brother who’s been around a bit more of late and is one of Laila’s favorite people, probably because when he shows up he brings his submissive, Aziz, who Laila thinks hung at least two or three stars in the sky. There’s Zahir, who Felix has literally nothing in common with but is the quietest of all of them. 

But when you put them all together, it gets a bit much. Add Byleth, Jeritza, and the small child who Felix isn’t sure is not a _ghost_ and it’s...a lot. The summer house is large and sprawling, and there’s technically plenty of room even if it sure doesn’t seem like it at the moment. 

They’re outside, because that seems to be the best given the sheer amount of _personality_ happening with their large extended family, and Felix is sitting on a blanket, idly pushing his hair out of his face as he watches Aurora and Laila try to explain to Nyssa the best places to listen in on conversations they’re not supposed to overhear. 

“What if you want to know what your birthday presents are,” Laila says. 

“What’s a birthday present?” asks Nyssa. 

Aurora gasps. “What. _What_. How can you not know what _birthday presents_ are?” 

“I don’t know what a birthday is. Or presents.” Nyssa pauses, then turns to the dog that’s been following her everywhere. “Is it like. Champion?” 

“Yeah, but not just...out of the blue, like...anyway, it’s like that, yeah, but the day you were born you get stuff. Presents.” 

“Born.” Nyssa tilts her head. “I don’t know about that.” 

“You could just, uh. Use the day your fathers found you in the cave?” 

Felix has to hide a laugh in a cough at that. The kids scamper off, Laila to her grandfather (Felix knowns Malik loves all his grandchildren, but he’s also certain Laila and Val are his favorites), Aurora to probably tell Dimitri that Nyssa doesn’t know what a birthday is, and Nyssa to sit by Salma and Marianne, with whom she’d made an immediate connection. 

Amir is tagging along behind Zahir, chattering while Zahir tries to read. Aziz is singing to Tiana, who is laughing in delight, and Hilda and Miri are making flower crowns. Claude and Tariq are having a very loud, animated discussion about something that involves them shoving at each other and laughing, which is nice to see. 

Byleth and Jeritza are sitting a bit on the outskirts of the circle but they seem content enough. 

Things stay calm for a bit, but of course the kids get rowdy and start chasing each other; Miri demanding tribute for her ruined flower crown, Laila trying to pretend to be a dragon to make Nyssa laugh (“that’s not...I mean, you’re …. it’s fine, I know what pretend is,” says Nyssa, shifty-eyed), Amir standing on a hay bale and shouting about a parliament, Aurora trying to wrestle Claude to make a point about how she’s old enough to fly on a wyvern by herself to see her sister whenever she wants. Claude’s letting her win the wrestling match, but this particular war isn’t going to go her way. 

“Pa,” a soft voice says, and Felix glances over to see Val, dragging his stuffed deer with wide, slightly frantic eyes. “Loud.”

Val, who spent a good deal of time on his grandfather’s broad shoulders, looks a little like Felix remembers he felt long ago after that first battle against actual, breathing people at Garreg Mach. His son has his unruly dark hair and his birth-mother’s big pink eyes, and is little like Felix was at his age, tripping over himself to keep up with the bigger kids. 

“Yeah. It is, isn’t it?” Smiling, Felix gets to his feet and reaches a hand toward his son. “Want to go somewhere quiet, little faun?” 

Val nods, taking his hand and pressing up against Felix’s thigh. He has a death grip on the stuffed deer. His little face is serious and his lip is trembling as he scans the scene, because Val, like Felix, always wants to know what’s going on even if he’s not sure he wants to be a part of it. 

Full of affection, Felix picks him up. “Mama said there were some kittens near the wyverns, do you want to see?” 

“Uh-huh,” Val says, settling against him. “Cod, too?” He waves the deer in Felix’s face. 

“Sure,” says Felix. He catches Claude’s eye and gets a brief nod; Claude knows their youngest gets overwhelmed easily, and the same is sort of true for Felix, isn’t it? “Did you have fun with your grandfather?” he asks, as they walk. 

Val nods, babbling something about Malik and dragons, and the sounds of talking and singing and shrieking fade a bit as they duck into the mostly quiet eyrie. Sunflower, Laila’s wyvern, makes a chirping sound. Val smiles and wriggles in his arms, and Felix carefully sets him down. 

Val turns like he’s going to dash over to Sunflower, then stops, turns and gives Felix his stuffed deer and says, “keep safe,” and Felix nods solemnly and holds the deer while Val goes to see the wyvern. 

Sunflower chirps, and Val chirps back and giggles, and then Felix sees the kittens over in the corner. Wyverns, which will eat mice and other small creatures, have a strange relationship with cats and kittens; Felix once saw Altaira, Claude’s wyvern, scare off a wild dog that came sniffing around a box of kittens back in Almyra. Claude has some myth about it, which Miri listened to patiently and then said, “that’s a nice story, Dad, but the truth is wyverns just like kittens like we do,” and since Marianne nodded in agreement, Felix supposed that was the truth. 

Val feeds Sunflower a treat, pats her on the head and then goes to see the kittens. He looks so cute on the ground with the kittens in their box that Felix leans against the wall and just watches him, smiling softly. He sort of feels like a wyvern himself, that he’d scare off anything that tried to hurt his kids. He loves all of them, of course, regardless of who their birth parents are - he’ll never forget how that felt, kneeling and having Claude tell him, so patiently, that basically any of his kids would be Felix’s, too. 

Felix has only ever wanted this; people to keep safe. A family. 

All that fighting, all those years where he went to sleep and woke up and fought grueling battles in killing fields long since grown over with new grass and trees. All the terror, the injuries, the scars like patchwork over his body. This is what it was all for. Watching a four year old babble in a mix of languages at a box of kittens. Knowing his sons, his daughters, will never have to do what he did to have these quiet moments. Val, his small son who has Felix’s own smile and the disposition that life tore away from him in bloody strips, will never have to fight for this. 

“Papa,” Val says. “Show Cod kittens!” 

Felix obligingly sits on the dirty, dusty ground and shows the stuffed animal a box of kittens. “Here they are.” He smiles as one of the kittens falls over itself, climbing toward Val and trying to scale the box. 

“Cute,” Val says, and beams up at him. His eyes go huge. This look is all his mother. “Want one.” 

“I think they’re too little right now. They have to stay with their mama,” Felix says. “Then maybe. We have a lot of cats, little faun.” 

“Stay with mama,” Val repeats. “Mama and Mommy?” He looks in the box, like there’s another mama cat he’s missed. 

“Well, not -- exactly. You have two mommies, but the kitties only have that one.” 

“Papa, where’s your mommy?” Val asks, curious, climbing in Felix’s lap. 

Felix never knows how to answer that. Val, as sensitive as he is, might not understand what _dead_ is. Felix doesn’t like to lie, either. But how do you tell a four year old what that word means, _dead_ , when earlier they were crying about a deer losing its antlers? 

“She - she went away,” Felix says, carefully. “When I was Amir’s age.” 

Val’s lower lip trembles. “Tell her to come back?” He pats Felix on the shoulder. “Papa misses.” 

“Um,” says Felix, desperate to change the subject. His son has an uncanny way of looking into someone’s soul, it seems like. “Let’s see the, ah. Kittens, look. Kittens.” 

Val is the child of two stubborn people, born into a family of contrary creatures who go their own way, and he demands, “Papa, where is your _Mama_.” 

“Oh, are we talking about your mother, Felix? Why, that’s one of my favorite subjects,” trills a voice, and Felix looks up in alarm as Tiana, Wielder of the Demon Blade, waltzes in with bells jingling and a smile that Felix sees every time Claude’s in a devious mood, or Amir’s talking about _my future plans_ , or Laila is planning how to fly her wyvern to Fhirdiad to see Aurora whenever she wants. 

“Come here, little sweeting,” Tiana says, holding her arms out to Val. “Come let Grandma tell you _all_ about your Papa’s sweet, sweet mother.” 

***

Tiana von Riegan, having outrun her odious chaperone, clambered into the crawl space under the service stairs of the Fraldarius manor, and changed into a scandalous sea green gown with white silk frothing like a cresting wave, has never felt quite so pleased in her life. She touches her hair, which is tousled by the wind off the sea, decides that she looks just about as disreputable as she ought to be, and strides through the doors of the Fraldarius ballroom.

Technically, she shouldn’t be here. She should be with her aunt, a dour, devout follower of the goddess who likely eats ice for tea and made love to the ghost of winter or something—Honestly, she can’t be sure what is supposed to be a moralizing fairytale or the truth, by this point. The fact is, Aunt Fionne is as boorish as Tiana’s father, just wrapped up in religion and covered in pearls. She thinks she’s going to make a proper lady of Tiana, but Tiana, basking in the glow of hundreds of candles and a magnificent chandelier, figures she’s lady enough for both of them.

“Rodrigue!” Tiana huffs as a red-haired man with an unfortunate attempt at a beard goes brushing past her. He storms up to a young man about Tiana’s age, the heir to the Fraldarius duchy, and slaps him hard on the shoulder. He rocks forward slightly and frowns. “They tell me you hired a _submissive_ to fight for the solstice dance. Tell me you didn’t.”

Rodrigue, polished and stuffy as he was the first time he bowed to Tiana from across her aunt’s drawing room, stiffens a little. “And what, precisely, does that have to do with anything?”

“Ah, well.” Tiana drifts closer. “I know you and Lambert have some unorthodox ideas on the subject, but all it takes is a strong command and half your soldiers are falling apart on the field.”

“Wait until your children start showing signs of their preference,” Rodrigue says. “Then come back to me.”

“Rich, coming from you. We all know what happened to the duke in that skirmish last winter. If you think you can call it fever and get away with—“ The man stops as King Lambert, newly crowned and still lanky as a teenager, wraps an arm around Rodrigue’s shoulder. “Your majesty.”

“Margrave,” King Lambert says. “Rodrigue, I need your assistance. Urgent business,” he adds. “The crown, you see. Dreadfully important. Shield matters. Only Rodrigue can help. Certain you understand.”

Tiana smiles as the king practically drags the heir of Fraldarius off into the thick of the ballroom, arm heavy on his shoulders. The Margrave sputters for a moment, attempts to compose himself, and stalks off to the drinks table.

Well. The king looks promising enough, at least. Tiana wonders, as she glides across the floor, if she can fit her name onto his dance card. She doesn’t necessarily want to be the queen of Faerghus, but she wouldn’t mind flirting with the possibility, a little.

A drum beats low over the gentle chatter of the crowd, and Tiana draws back as the candles dim and lights are snuffed out along the ballroom floor. The king and Rodrigue are standing off to the side, smiling faintly, and the crowd slowly starts to make space in the center of the ballroom.

“To celebrate the longest night of the year,” Rodrigue says, from where he’s still trapped under Lambert. “House Fraldarius has provided a swordsman to perform the last dance.”

A slim, dark-haired figure emerges from the crowd. She’s wearing a man’s uniform, dark and roughly cut like a footsoldier, and her inky black hair hangs loose down her back. Everything about her is sharp as a blade, from her angular cheeks to her slash of a smile, and she keeps a hand on the hilt of her sword as she bows to the king.

“Good goddess,” a woman says, at Tiana’s left. “It’s that girl. The one who’s father _bought_ their title last year, after she nearly got herself in trouble. You know.”

“The fishwife?” her companion laughs. The woman in the center of the ballroom glances their way, and Tiana lays a hand on her breast.

Her eyes are gold, sharp and clear, and she holds Tiana’s gaze for one breathless second before she looks away.

“Your majesty,” she says. Her voice is thick with the burr of the commoners who work Fraldarius’ docks, and the crowd shifts slightly, whispers drifting across the darkened ballroom. “My lord.” She bows to the king and Rodrigue, and Rodrigue flushes slightly. Tiana can’t exactly blame him. She turns to the crowd and lifts her chin, says something in a dialect Tiana doesn’t understand, the thick slang of the fishermen who always push past Tiana and her aunt at the market. She thinks she can understand the word _heartbeat,_ at least, and tries not to startle as drums sound behind the crowd. The people around her start to stamp, keeping time, and the girl with the sword nods.

“In Fhirdiad,” the woman next to Tiana mutters, “we had a proper dancer. With silks. None of this rustic nonsense.”

Then the woman starts to sing. She has a clear voice, high and still affected by that Fraldarius burr, nothing like anything Tiana has heard in the Alliance. She raises her sword, whirls in time to the stamping beat building around her, and her sword darts in the air as though fending off an army of ghosts, beautiful and deadly and precise. Tiana holds her breath as the stamping shakes the floor, as the girl lets out a shout that half the ballroom answers, as she tosses her sword in the air, spins, drops to her knees. She catches the sword one-handed and slides it under her arm as though piercing herself through the breast, and Tiana stands in utter silence as the crowd bursts into polite applause.

“Ah, well,” the girl says, and rises from her knees. “Thank you.” She bows to the king again, then to Rodrigue, who looks as though he’s been turned to stone, and sheathes her sword before she turns to walk off into the crowd.

Tiana follows her. She pushes past pretty submissives in silk and lace, ignores the gleaming chandeliers and glasses of champagne, and burst out into the cold salt air of a Fraldarius winter to find the girl tapping her feet as though shaking off the dust from her heels. She bristles at the sight of Tiana’s shadow sliding across the snow, and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Aye, I know what you want and I ain’t interested,” she says, without looking back. Tiana smiles. “If you want to tell me my form’s off or that you can do better, just get it out of the way now so I can go home, yeah?”

“Oh, no,” Tiana says. “You were perfect.”

“Pull the other one,” the woman says, whirling on her heel. “You saw that footwork… halfway…”

Tiana rocks on her toes, trying to ignore the way the snow bites through her shoes. “It’s nice to see another swordswoman at one of these events,” she says. “I’d challenge you, probably, but I fear I left my sword at home. Tiana,” she says. “Of house von Riegan, unfortunately.”

The woman snorts. “Belle. My grandda’s trying to make us House Pendragon, but I was born a Copper. Von Riegan sounds foreign. You’re from the Alliance?”

“It’s a misfortune of my birth,” Tiana says.

“Ah, yeah, great misfortune.” Belle smiles down at her feet. “They teach you the blade there, my lady?”

“I taught myself. Well. In a way,” Tiana says. “I hired my own tutors.”

Belle laughs outright, and Tiana feels heat crawling up her neck. “Tutors! I tremble at your feet, my lady.”

“You _can,_ ” Tiana says, stepping forward. “If you want to.”

“Ha! We have stories about women like you,” Belle says. She’s smiling, even if she does keep her gaze from meeting Tiana’s eyes. “Sirens. The men say they take fellows off the ships and drown them under the ice.”

“Do they?” Tiana’s smile broadens. She steps closer. “And what do the women say?”

Belle holds her ground. “They say when the husbands are dead, their widows get to come to the sea and trade their skins. Some live with the sirens. Some turn into seals, disappear.”

“Men always leave out the best part of the story, don’t they?”

“I suspect they do.” Belle takes a measured step back. “But if you’d like to pull me under, my lady, you’ll have to prove you’ve the skill to do it.” She unsheathes her sword, and Tiana draws back, brows rising. Belle flips it, the pommel resting on her palm, and holds it out to Tiana. “A duel, then.”

“But you don’t have a sword,” Tiana says, taking the hilt. It’s well-balanced, and the steel shines with moonlight off the snow.

“Thought I’d level the playing field,” Belle says. 

“I can’t just stab an unarmed—“

“Let me help you with that,” Belle says, and slides within Tiana’s reach, pulls out a dagger, and twists at the hilt of her sword. It pops out of Tiana’s grip, and Belle steps back, tosses it, catches it one-handed. “Aye, your tutors taught you well, my lady.”

“Now, one moment.” Tiana lurches for her, and Belle slides the blade of the sword past her cheek, so close she can feel the chill of it.

“Pull me under, siren,” Belle says, and hands her the sword again. Tiana scowls and lunges for her, and Belle sidesteps out of the way. “Beautiful form.”

“Thanks,” Tiana grits out. She tries to close the distance, but Belle keeps slipping out of reach. It’s like trying to catch a fish in her bare hands—Tiana twists, lunges, tries to make her jump or stagger, but Belle is sure-footed in the snow and smiling like a fox, her dark hair wild in her face. Her gaze is starting to go dark, though, the further they move from the manor, and her hands start to drift behind her back. 

Tiana stops. Belle watches her, her eyes fixing on a point just over Tiana’s shoulder, and Tiana can see that she’s flushed, breathing hard, her hands firmly locked behind her back.

“Give me your sheath,” Tiana says.

Belle unbuckles her belt and hands it over. Tiana sheathes the sword and hangs the belt over a branch—no use ruining a perfectly good sword in the snow. Then she turns to Belle, smiling.

“On your knees, pretty thing.”

Belle laughs. She kneels hard, with no grace or poise to it, and tosses her hair back so that moonlight gilds her upturned face. 

“Those people don’t deserve you,” Tiana says. She slides her fingers through Belle’s hair, tugs slightly, grins at the resulting hitch of her breath. 

“They probably don’t deserve you, either,” Belle says.

Tiana sinks to a knee and kisses her, there in the moonlit snow, and when she pulls away, she takes Belle’s dagger with her. She turns it over in her hands, and Belle watches it with a hunger that thrills Tiana, chases away the chill of the longest night. 

“Now you _are_ unarmed, sweet thing,” Tiana says, and Belle stiffens as the knife touches the skin at the base of her jaw. “Oh, bless the warriors of Faerghus. You do love falling on your blade, don’t you?”

Belle closes her eyes. “You’re paying if you rip anything,” she whispers, and gasps as Tiana tugs at her blouse with the knife, tearing the seams. She blushes so wonderfully like this, with Tiana slicing through her buttons one by one, and when Tiana pulls at her blouse, Belle lets it fall at her feet, her bare chest heaving. Tiana drags the flat of the blade between Belle’s breasts, testing how far she can go, and Belle _moans._

“Why, Belle,” Tiana says. “You’re terribly underdressed for the weather. Let me help you.”

So she graciously lies back in the snow, blessedly cool on her heated skin, and laughs as Belle, naked and shivering and glassy-eyed with want, disappears under the folds of her gown and trails her cold hands up Tiana’s thighs. She keeps her there for what feels like hours, holding Belle with her legs, shaking and gasping as Belle worships her with her tongue, her fingers, gasps for breath and whispers against her quivering thighs.

Afterwards, she lays Belle out on her cloak and drags the blade along Belle’s neck. She teases her slit with two fingers, pressing feverish kisses to her jaw, and feels the frantic pulse of her heart. The blade just brushes Belle’s breasts, and she cries out, bucks against Tiana’s fingers.

“I heard that the people of Faerghus live for the blade,” Tiana says. She crouches over her to drag her teeth over Belle’s nipple while the knife hovers just below her chest. Belle is breathing hard, both hands clenched in her own hair. “I didn’t know they took it so literally.”

“Oh, hell,” Belle whispers. Her accent is thicker, now, her words slurring into each other as Tiana finally slips her fingers inside, crooks them just so. “Of course we do, you ain’t heard our—oh, our folksongs?”

“They’re fairly macabre, yes,” Tiana says. She rests the blade at her belly, holds it there as she sinks between Belle’s thighs. Belle is shaking harder, now, but not entirely from the cold, and all it takes is for Tiana to bring the knife down to her thigh, sliding along the sensitive skin there, for Belle to fall over the edge with a howl. Tiana works her through it until she starts to squirm away from her fingers, and draws back to admire her naked, panting form sprawled on her cloak.

“You didn’t ask to come,” she says, at last. Belle’s eyes fly open.

“Aye? Didn’t I?” She tries to sit up on her elbows, fails, and flops onto her back again. “Well, maybe that’s ‘cause I was fuckin’ distracted, you absolute bloody _demon.”_

“Oh, Belle,” Tiana says. She kisses her, softly, and Belle wraps her arms around Tiana’s shoulders, smiling against her. “That has to be the most romantic thing anyone’s said to me in my life.”

***  
Felix’s face is on fire. 

Tiana might have censored that story for his son, but Felix knows very well what _we dueled outside in the snow and then we made snow angles and cuddled!_ means. 

“I think she would have been so delighted,” Tiana says, with Claude’s irrepressible grin, “that her son and mine fell in love.” 

“Ugh,” says Felix. “She -- probably thought. You were a _menace_.” And she’d be right. 

Tiana’s smile now looks like _Malik’s_ , which is -- disconcerting, to say the least. “She certainly did. And she liked it. Do you know --” She glances at Val, who has a four year old’s attention span and likes kittens enough that he’s ignoring them, for the moment -- “She was engaged to your father, or -- well, a few days after that, she was. I used to sneak in her window and visit her.” Her eyes twinkle at him. “Before I was sent home.” 

“Stop,” Felix says, pressing his hands to his eyes. He remembers his mother, a little. She would sing in a language that sounded like theirs but wasn’t, and she was sweet, and there was always something amused and distant about her smile when she’d look out at the sea. He wonders if his father loved her as desperately as he loves Dimitri, or Claude. If she ever thought about Tiana, if she missed her in those lonely days by the cold sea while her husband rode off to his king’s side. 

“She would tell me stories, about the selkies,” Felix says, as Val climbs into his lap and presses his sweet little face against Felix’s chest. Felix pets his son’s hair. “I remember that. About how sometimes women would just trade who they are, to go be someone else. Somewhere wilder, untamed. I think she probably. Meant you.” 

Tiana smiles, and reaches out -- not to touch Val’s head, but Felix’s. “I used to call her Trouble. Who knows what might have happened if she hadn’t married your father. Maybe nobody would be here. Maybe I would have brought her with me. You might have been Malik’s son, and hers.” 

Felix snorts, but he keeps his eyes downcast. “She never -- talked much, about her past, or...well, much of anything, but I was so little. Maybe she would have.” He strokes little Val’s hair, thinks about the night he and Hilda fought off those bandits. He glances up at Tiana. “She’s the one who taught me to love the snow.” 

“Sweet thing.” Tiana leans in and kisses him on the forehead. “You’re just like her. I don’t know if you know that. But you are.” 

Felix lowers his gaze and smiles. “Trouble?” 

“Well. Sure. Life’s boring without it. I think my Khalid would agree.” Tiana takes Val, standing up and shifting the little boy to her hip. “Things worked out like they should. I hope she was happy.” 

“So do I,” says Felix, because honestly, he doesn’t really know. “So do I.”


	9. Chapter 9

A letter from Amir, age six, painstakingly proofread, to Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, who is too old for this.

_Dear Uncle Lorenz,_

_My name is Amir. My dad is visiting you and I wanted to say hi because I know all about you and think you are Very Interesting. Dad has papers he says I can’t read but I can because I am very clever and they say you are very clever too and also trouble. I am in trouble a lot so I think we will be friends. Please find in-closed a drawing of a bird._

_I love you_

_Amir_

A note sent to King Khalid’s guest room in the Gloucester residence, in bold lettering.

_What is the meaning of this._

A note sent back to Lorenz, lobbed at his head from King Khalid that morning.

_He’s a child, Lorenz, there doesn’t have to be a purpose to him._

A letter sent from Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, dripping with wax seals and shown excitedly to every person in the Almyran palace.

_Dear “Amir,”_

_I am pleased to hear you are well and apparently exist. What, pray tell, did these mysterious papers have to say that made me so interesting? I’m dying to know._

_By the way. That bird appears to be an Almyran Gold-Crested Blackbird. Please find enclosed an Alliance coin. This coin used to be given to spies to announce the start of a clandestine feud. If the other party wished to accept the challenge, they would provide a coin of their own._

_Sincerely,_

_Lorenz Hellman Gloucester_

A much-edited and rewritten letter sent to Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, along with a large sachet of Almyran coins.

_Dear Uncle Lorenz,_

_I LOVED THE COIN. I SHOWED IT TO EVERYONE AND DAD LAUGHED AND SAID IT WAS THE BEST THING HE’D EVER SEEN. I HAVE IT ON MY DRESSER WITH A WYVERN TOOTH AND A ROCK FROM FRIAR DALRISS AND MY FRONT TOOTH WHICH MOM SAYS I NEED TO THROW AWAY._

_The papers say you have lots and lots and lots of land and it says what bills you like (I like sharp pointy ones) and there are your grades from school I think. I am starting school. I can read and my tutors say I am a Prodigy but Mama says not to tell my sisters or baby Val. I asked Dad and he says you were probably a Prodigy too. He smiles when I ask about you. He likes you a lot. I think you are his best friend because Miri is my best friend and I always smile when she’s around._

_I hope you like my coins. I got some from everyone._

_I love you_

_Amir_

A letter from Lorenz Hellman Gloucester to King Khalid the Silver-Tongued, with a copy of Amir’s letter.

_PARDON?_

Several years and many letters later, delivered to Lorenz Hellman Gloucester by an Almyran bootboy, who Lorenz never hired and mysteriously disappears two hours later.

_Dear Uncle Lorenz,_

_I’m not surprised that you know about Father. They say he’s the worst-kept secret in Fodlan, but no one minds because he’s the hero who ended the war. I think he’s like a miracle, to people. You don’t have to change laws for a miracle, because no one else is going to compare. So it’s okay if he’s an unusual king, because nothing has to change if people just put him on a high enough pedestal._

_I, on the other hand, have heard him try to sing Baby Deer to Val and have been on the receiving end of way too many puns to think he’s anything but a really big nerd who’s probably good with a spear, I guess._

_I’m sorry that none of your spies have made it all the way to the Almyran palace. I keep telling Dad to let one through so I can pass coded notes, but he says that sets a bad precedent._

_I will, however, be in the Alliance again soon. Maybe I’ll meet you this time? Dad never lets me travel with him when he goes to visit the Alliance nobles. He keeps saying I’ll get caught up in_ the game _and become_ a reverse Tiana. _But that’s not true. I don’t think. I’m not sure. I’m not that impressionable, whatever he thinks._

_Your loving nephew,_

_Amir_

***

“I’m telling you,” Amir says, dismounting off the back of the king of Fodlan’s horse. The two of them—Or three, including the horse—are right on the border of the well-kept grounds of the Gloucester manor, with its verdant vegetable garden and clothes hanging up on long lines in the sun. “No one’s going to know we’re gone for _hours._ Mom and Dad think we’re with Papa, Papa thinks we’re with Father, and Father thinks we’re with Mama.”

“And Mama always knows where we are,” Miri says. She’s dressed in one of her riding gowns, which is a deep mauve that splits at the thigh to reveal doe-skin trousers, and her gloves have been dyed to match. For a nine year-old, Amir thinks, she spends so much time trying to be a _lady_ that she’s losing sight of the important things. Like books, or politics, or getting away from their wild, rambunctious family for a day.

Especially that last part. Miri _loves_ the chaos. She loves the court, the balls, the parties that their royal father takes them to in Almyra, the people whispering _your royal highness_ to her in Fodlan. She’s mastered all the bows and hand gestures, and Amir helped her steal a book on submissive/dominant social etiquette last month, which she’s already excessively bookmarked.

“I have to know what to do when it happens,” she’d told him, which just made Amir roll his eyes. He doesn’t see the point of it, really. Who cares where you fall on the spectrum when there’s actual work to do?

“Do you think he’ll mind?” Miri asks, as they lead Dimitri Blaiddyd’s stolid warhorse to a stable behind a magnificent rose garden. She keeps looking around, her loose, wavy hair bobbing in her face.

“It’s fine,” Amir says. “We’re friends. We’ve been writing for years. Besides, _you’re_ here, so you can just put on the charm and he’ll forget we didn’t call ahead.”

“So that’s why you keep me around,” Miri drawls, and Amir smiles, scrunching up his eyes. They both have the same smile, wolfish and very unlike any of their parents, and it makes Miri look like herself again, not a proper noble girl trying too hard to be an adult.

“I’m glad you came,” he says, as their father’s horse rips up grass at their feet. Miri’s own eyes scrunch up.

“Dope,” she says, fondly.

“Doofus.”

“Brat.”

“Nerd.”

“Children?” They both turn. The voice that calls out to them is accented, clearly noble, with a hint of their Fodlan fathers’ drawl. Amir’s heart races. Lorenz is already here. Of course he would notice. He’s probably aware of everything in his house, all the time. 

Amir looks around the horse and frowns slightly as a man who definitely doesn’t look like his dad’s descriptions of Lord Lorenz trots over the grass towards him.

For one, the man has reddish hair, more carrot orange like Aunt Annette’s than true red like Uncle Sylvain’s, long and loose and hanging over his shoulders without any sense of order. He has a beard, too, neatly trimmed but covering his whole mouth and jaw, and even though there’s grey to his temples and threading through his hair, he doesn’t seem _that_ old. As old as Amir’s parents, maybe, which is still pretty ancient, but not old enough for grey hair.

Maybe something scared him, once. Amir heard of that happening, before. People can see something so terrifying that their hair turns white as snow—Like the old emperor. The one his parents only talk about in secret, when they think Amir isn’t listening. So maybe this guy was only half frightened.

“Ah, children,” he says again. Miri sighs. “You must be lost. This is the Gloucester manor—there isn’t—“

“No, we aren’t lost,” Amir says. “Thank you.”

Miri squints at the man, who looks back at her with mild alarm. “I don’t know how to introduce myself,” she says. “What are you? You’re dressed like a gardener, but you talk like a noble. Are you in disguise? For fun?”

The man goes an interesting shade of pale. Amir leans on the horse, watching him.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” the man says, posh as any duke. “I apologize for my terrible manners. I am.” There’s the faintest hesitation. “Albert. I live in the groundskeeper’s lodgings by the lake. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bows, one hand extended, and Miri lays her small hand in his palm.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s how they do it in the empire.” Albert’s shoulders stiffen slightly, and Miri bends at the knee, inclining her head like a queen. “Princess Miri of Almyra. Did I do it right?”

Albert’s eyes look distant, somehow, when he raises up from his bow. Like their parents’ get when they mention the war, quiet and still. “Yes,” he says. “I believe so.”

“And I’m Amir,” Amir says. “Also of Almyra. But I’m a prince, and technically we’re both royal here, too, but it’s complicated.”

“Too complicated,” Miri says. “Getting used to dancing in two styles of gown is impossible.”

“Should you…” Albert seems to be at a loss. He pushes his long hair back absently. “Shouldn’t you be with someone? Guards? Your family?”

“Probably,” Amir says. “But Uncle Lorenz is family, so we’re good.”

“ _Uncle—“_

“Ferd—Albert,” a voice calls out behind them, clipped and stern, and Amir turns with a grin to find a polished, violet-haired noble opening the back door to the manor. He’s every bit as dashing and respectable as Amir thought he’d be, and there are rose patterns embroidered on his coat and a _silk_ rose pinned on his shoulder. “Who are these children?”

“What did he say?” Miri asks, as Amir strides off towards Lorenz in his most grown-up manner, trying to hold himself tall and proud like Papa. Lorenz stares at him as though he’s sprouted three heads.

“Good goddess,” he says. “It’s a miniature Claude.”

“No, I’m an average-sized myself,” Amir says, holding out his hand. “King Khalid is my father. Amir. Prince of Almyra, noble of Fodlan. It’s, it’s just. Just swell to meet you, Uncle Lorenz.”

“ _Swell?_ ” Miri squawks. “Oh my gods, what _are_ you?”

“I just _told_ him, Miri, don’t mess it up.”

Lorenz reflexively takes Amir’s hand. “You’re actually a child,” he says, in a vague, funny tone.

“No, I’m ten. That’s practically a pre-teen.”

“Of course,” Lorenz says, faintly. “I just thought—You understand, your letters were very… unique, and I thought your father—“

“He helped with spelling, at first,” Amir says. “But that’s it. And he isn’t here. Me and Miri came to see you on our own.”

Lorenz’s eyes go wide. “Alone? With no guards? Is your father quite well?”

“Oh, yeah, but.” Amir shrugs. “We didn’t tell him, so.”

Miri, clearly sensing a potential adult melt-down, rushes into action. “I am Princess Miri of Almyra, pleased to meet you. I have too many surnames in Fodlan, so I hope you don’t mind if I don’t repeat them all, but you would know my birth mother, Marianne, and my mother Hilda and father, Khal—Claude. You swore fealty to our father King Dimitri before either of us were born, of course, and his consort, Duke Fraldarius. This is a _lovely_ home. How _do_ you keep your gardens so beautiful?”

“I, we. Water them,” Lorenz says, utterly lost to the Miri Charm Initiative.

“Do you use any of them for tea? My mother, Marianne von Goneril—She used to be Edmund, but honestly, surnames are so _dull_ —she brews rosehip and lavender with honey, sometimes, and it’s quite nice.”

“We’re sorry for the imposition,” Amir says, as Lorenz blinks slowly. “But I wanted to see you, and Miri won’t let me go alone. She’s—“

“Your best friend,” Lorenz says. “I remember. Goddess, I’ll have to write to Claude. And we’ll need to assign guards, of course. Albert, if you could fetch the steward?”

Albert bows his head, and Amir catches a glimmer of relief in his eyes as he turns away. 

“You never told me about him in your letters,” Amir says.

Lorenz raises a hand to his temple. “Yes. Well. There’s a great deal you can’t say in writing. I. You’re certain you’re Claude’s son?”

“Can’t really ignore it,” Amir says.

“People get really annoying about it, sometimes,” Miri says. “Can I go look after Mountain? That’s our horse. He’s had a long ride, and your perfume bugs him.”

“I’ll have the stablehands see to him,” Lorenz says, with a slight twitch to his mouth. “How about we all… go inside. I’ll have tea ready in a moment.”

The inside of the Gloucester manor is everything Amir dreamed it would be. There are ornamental vases, old swords and lances behind glass, massive portraits and books featuring family ledgers going back all the way to the founding. Amir takes his time following Lorenz, soaking it all in, and grins at the sight of an indoor garden, bathed in the light of a magnificent glass sunroof.

“Oh, this is like Almyra,” Amir says. He steps around tiny rosebushes to place his hands on an ornate metal tea table. “We love sunroofs, there. The rainy season goes on forever, you know, so it’s nice.”

“Please, sit,” Lorenz says. He’s still staring at Amir like he’s a strange, skittish creature that’s about to either set the house on fire or disappear in a puff of smoke. “You, ah. You did read those books I sent you, then.”

“Yes, I loved them.” Amir unconsciously pulls out a seat for Miri, who scoots one out for him with her foot. They both move their chairs back in at the same time. “I know my dad—that’s Claude—he doesn’t like some of the more privileged parts of being noble, and I agree, but I think the idea of having a code of nobility is interesting. Especially if you turn it so nobles aren’t so much feudal lords as they are politicians. But then, I still think you’d need a senate of commoners.”

“Yes, you told me,” Lorenz says. “But if a noble does their duty, they don’t need a commoner senate.”

“Yeah, if,” Amir says.

“Oh, no,” Miri whispers.

“I’m just saying,” Amir says, before she can stop him, “commoners need to keep nobles in check, just like nobles keep the ruler in check. There can’t be an imbalance of power without a revolution.”

“He’s always like this,” Miri says. A servant comes by with tea and a tray of small iced cakes, and Miri smiles. “Oh, yes, please. Thank you very much, Lord Lorenz.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Lorenz says. He pours her a cup. 

It doesn’t take long for Lorenz to warm up to the debate, really. He suggests a whole library of books and charters for Amir to read, even talking through it as he scribbles down a note for Amir and Miri’s dad, and Miri grows so bored with it that she starts eyeing the flowers. Lorenz catches this and cuts a cluster of yellow roses for her, which she immediately pins to her dress pocket with a brooch.

“You and my groundskeeper would get along,” Lorenz says to Amir, as they leave their tea behind and climb the long staircase to the second floor. “Or you’ll debate each other for hours, in any case. He’s a strong supporter of a democratic government.”

“Why would a groundskeeper care?” Miri asks. “And he isn’t one. You know that, right? He isn’t.”

“Miri, you don’t just tell people,” Amir whispers, as Lorenz freezes, one hand on the knob of a wide door. “You’re supposed to let them think they’re keeping a secret.”

“That’s why _you’re_ gonna be Laila’s advisor and _I’m_ gonna marry the queen or king of somewhere and have seventeen children,” Miri says.

“Why? Five is too much for us, and we have a parent each.”

Lorenz stares at them, caught off guard as every newcomer is to Amir and Miri’s roundabout arguments, and clears his throat. “It would be prudent not to mention my visitor to your parents,” he says. “He’s… not from here, and the situation is delicate.”

“Oh.” Miri covers her mouth with both hands. “Is he from the empire? Is he a _criminal?_ are you harboring him? Are you in _love?_ ”

Lorenz goes dark pink, which is _very_ interesting, and swings open the door. “Never mind that. Behold,” he says. A wall of books and scrolls greet them, and Miri groans faintly. “Alliance records dating back four centuries. And there may be a few more _dramatic_ stories that fit your exacting standards, Princess Miri.”

“You’re the best uncle I’ve ever had in my entire life,” Amir says, and Lorenz covers a smile with his hand.

***

“I cannot _believe_ ,” Claude says, again. 

“Mmm.” Marianne pats him on the shoulder as they walk, Claude’s wyvern nibbling on fresh greens in the stables as they head toward the main house. “You know Amir is determined to make friends with Lorenz.” 

“They just. Took a horse -- _Dimitri’s war horse --_ \-- and left. Left, Marianne.” 

“I know.” For all Claude’s panic, Marianne is as calm as ever. “Miri does have a way with animals.” Her smile is small, soft. 

“Marianne, you cannot be nice to them. We have to tell them that lying and running off to Lorenz is not acceptable behavior.” Claude huffs. “I am being punished for every time I did anything as a child, why did we want _five_ again?” 

Marianne laughs outright and puts her arm through Claude’s. “Your Majesty. Because Hilda asked, and we both spoil her terribly.” 

“I guess.” Claude sighs and his eyes are drawn to a gardener, working over by the roses. He frowns, he’s immediately distracted by a beaming staff member who approaches him and bows, eyes lowered. 

“Your Majesty, we’re so pleased you’ve chosen to visit.” The woman straightens. She grins. “Your children are a _delight_.” 

“Oh, no,” says Claude, but he smiles. “I’m glad. Do you want them? I have three more, and these two are pretty much a set.” 

“Claude,” Marianne chastises, again, as they head into the house. “I promise I will be very disappointed in them, but I can’t help being a little proud they managed their way here.” 

“Sure, it’s great, but I almost had a heart attack.” Claude shakes his head. “My father just laughed. Laughed! Said something about apples falling off a tree, as if he has any room to talk.” 

“Wrong language,” Marianne says, in Fodlan, and Claude remembers to switch over as they near the library. 

Lorenz went from being an awkward teen to a pretty young noble to a _stunning_ man, his violet hair pulled neatly back and his clothing pressed and fashionable. His smile, when he sees Claude, is both wry and genuine. Their friendship has grown over the years into something comfortable, even if Lorenz thought he was making up his own child to pull a con on him. 

“So, it would appear you spawned a child exactly like you,” Lorenz says, shaking his head. “Better spoken at ten than you were at seventeen, I daresay. Marianne.” He turns a warm smile on his former classmate. “You look as radiant as ever. They say desert flowers are the loveliest.” 

“Oh, stop,” Marianne says, but she smiles and drops an old-school Fodlan curtsy. “You look as dashing as ever, Lord Lorenz.” 

“Please, please, let us not stand on formalities,” Lorenz breezes. “That way, I shan’t have to call Claude _your majesty_.” 

Despite his snark, he and Claude share an embrace before Lorenz says, “Your son is clever, and your daughter is very. Spirited. What, pray tell, are the other three like? Should I expect letters from them, too? Unplanned, surprise visits? Demands for my thoughts on parliaments and democratic senates?” 

Claude winces. “No, uh. Laila, my oldest, is the crown princess of Almyra. She’s very into dragon lore and sort of hero worships my father. Aurora is the crown princess of Fodlan and, well, remember Dimitri at the Academy? Gangly, no inside voice, very earnest, broke things by glancing at them? Yeah. That’s her. You’ve met the prince and princess of trouble, there, and my youngest...Valentine, or Val, is, ah.” 

“The sweetest little boy,” Marianne says. “Very sensitive. He heard me say I was disappointed in his sister and brother and cried.” 

“I should have brought him. That kid does guilt better than anyone I’ve ever met,” Claude says, shaking his head. “He got that from Hilda, but he’s also Felix’s, so he’s sincere about it. Really sincere. At the end of my sword kind of sincere.” 

“Your life is utterly ridiculous and I am not at all surprised,” Lorenz breezes. “But come, I’ve corralled your missing offspring in here.” He flings open the doors. “Esteemed prince and princess, your parents are here.” 

Miri looks up and her eyes go round. “Oh, no,” she whispers. “Amir. Dad brought _Mama._ ”

Amir, who is surrounded by books and looks _so much like Claude at that age_ that Claude has to keep his face from breaking into a fond expression just at the sight of it, leaps gallantly to his feet. “Oh. I, you see, I can explain, Father,” he says, full of youthful, earnest charm. 

Claude holds up a hand. “A moment. Lord Lorenz, if you don’t want to see me yell at my son for being foolish, you might want to leave.” 

“Are you kidding?” Lorenz examines his nails. “I have full faith my nephew will match your wits with perfect aplomb, Claude.” 

Claude’s eyebrows go up, but he marches over to his son and says, with every bit of natural dominance he has and then some, “ _Do not ever do that again or you are never leaving the royal palace, do you understand me._ ” 

The twins -- which is how everyone thinks of them, even if they aren’t technically -- both immediately stare down at the floor. Claude is fairly certain Marianne went to her knees, but he doesn’t turn around to check. “Amir. Did you hear me?” 

“Yes, Father,” Amir says, with Claude’s own stubbornness etched in every line of his small frame, and not a hint of actual remorse anywhere to be found. 

“This is _a delight_ ,” Lorenz says, unabashedly enjoying himself. “You’re saddled with a small version of yourself, now you know how all of us felt in school. No offense intended, nephew.” 

“Wait until I drop him off here for a summer,” Claude says, but he turns his attention back to Amir. “Your brother cried because he thought you were lost.” 

“Val cries if I’m five minutes late to breakfast,” Amir says. “And one time he cried when Miri stepped on _Aurora’s_ foot during dance lessons --” 

“Amir,” Claude says. He pauses, then whips out his trump card. As if his son is going to beat him at a game of will. He’s had years more practice being sneaky. “You upset Mama. Look and see how upset she is.”

Amir glances over at Marianne, who is indeed kneeling, and ah, there’s the hint of guilt. “I didn’t mean to. I asked if we could go, but everyone was too busy so --” 

“So you went anyway? Do you think that’s smart?” 

“He did get us here, Dad,” Miri pipes up. “We only got lost twice and -”

“Miri!” Amir hisses at her. “That wasn’t -- it was a shortcut.” 

“And you shouldn’t show up at someone’s house without an invitation,” Claude continues. 

“But it’s family, you always said if I’m trouble I count on Uncle Lorenz to help me --” 

“You were not in trouble, you were just told _no_ ,” Claude interrupts. “And I sort of meant that as, he would help you out of trouble in the future. Politically. When you’re older.” 

“What a bold assumption, I wonder where he gets it from,” Lorenz demurrs. 

“Not when you’re ten and bored and decide you want to go visit -- your uncle,” Claude allows, because the children do have a very vast system of aunts and uncles and apparently Lorenz is now one, whether he ever wanted to be or not. “That was also not your horse.” 

“He didn’t mind,” Miri pipes up. “Promise, Dad. Mama. I swear on my favorite gown.” 

“Amir. A prince apologies when he does things wrong.” That gets nothing but a mullish, familiar look on his stubborn child’s face, so he switches tactics. “Is that how you think a just lawmaker would rule, by doing what he wants regardless of the laws and the wishes of the people?” 

Amir bites his lip. “I just wanted. To visit. And you’re busy, and --” his lip quivers, but then he nods. “I’m sorry.” It sounds like he mostly means it, and his eyes -- the same color as Claude’s -- are shining and bright, but Amir is _also_ Hilda’s child and so. “Please don’t embarrass me in front of Uncle Lorenz anymore, Father.” 

“Then make your apologies like a respectable young man, and I won’t.” He looks over at his daughter. “You, too, Miri.” 

Amir squares his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Father, that I took the horse and didn’t tell anyone where I was going.” 

“I’m sorry I told him that the horse was nice and would bring us here,” Miri points out. “But you shouldn’t be cross with me, Dad, because I only came along so Amir wouldn’t get lost.” 

“Miri,” Marianne says, quietly. “I’m already disappointed, please don’t lie. You wanted to come with your brother, do just admit it.” 

Miri bursts into tears and runs at Marianne, all dramatics, flinging herself at Marianne. “Don’t be disappointed, Mama! I was going to ask that nice gardener Albert to let me bring you back a rose!” 

“Miri,” Amir hisses. “Uncle Lorenz said not to talk about him!” Before he can ask about that, Amir walks over to Lorenz and gives him a polite bow. “I’m sorry to have shown up without an invitation, Uncle Lorenz. Maybe you should just tell my father I’m allowed to visit whenever I want, though, so that I don’t get in trouble?” 

Claude groans. 

Lorenz gives Claude a wicked, unholy grin and returns his son’s bow. “Prince Amir, my home is yours. As your honored uncle, I assure you, you and your siblings will be most welcome.” 

“You have no idea what you’ve just done, do you,” says Claude. 

“Sorry we brought the horse to your house,” Miri says, pulling away from Lorenz. “But it’s nice here. I like your gardens. Do you think I could go see them with Mama?” 

Lorenz assures her that would be fine, and after Amir makes a genuine apology to Marianne for causing her to worry, Lorenz suggests they both go to the kitchens for a snack. 

The second his children scamper off, Lorenz looks at Claude -- and then laughs so hard he nearly cries.

“Ah, but the Goddess has a sense of humor, after all,” he gasps. “Claude von Riegan, undone by a ten year old. Fully and utterly overcome by a scheme of his own making -- literally.” 

Marianne, back on her feet, hides a laugh in a cough -- and then doesn’t bother hiding it. 

“Laugh it up, but you’re the one who just told him he can come here whenever he wants. Next time he asks? I’ll say yes, but only if he brings his siblings.” Claude smirks at him. “We’ll see how much you’re laughing _then_.” 

***

Miri’s favorite dreams are of the sea.

She doesn’t dream of them often. Usually, she only does when Grandma Salma takes her to the beach in the eastern provinces, or when Papa or Daddy talk quietly of the grey shores of Fraldarius. She likes those beaches the most—Some of them are just miles of pebbles worn smooth by the tide, and seals barking softly as they flop around on the distant peninsula. There are docks full of people who speak in strange accents only Papa and Daddy can understand, and sometimes, when he thinks no one is listening, Papa will sing their songs under his breath as he works in the stables or fights alone in the training yards. Those songs follow her as she dreams, winding through dark waves where sleek shapes twist and sway just out of reach.

They’re lonely dreams. Quiet. Sometimes she just sits there on a pebbled beach and watches the tide roll around her. Sometimes there’s a person there, standing on a ship in the distance, hand upraised. Sometimes they call out to her.

Tonight, Miri wakes from a dream so vivid she can still smell the salt air on her skin, and she rolls out of her guest bed to see Amir already awake, watching her. They can always tell when the other one is awake or not—It comes from sharing the same room at home, even if they’re allowed to have their own. Amir smiles and jerks his head towards the wide window overlooking the Gloucester grounds.

“Someone else is up,” he whispers.

Miri clambers out of bed. She and Amir walk cat quiet across the rug, and Amir graciously allows her to look out the window first, where she sees the tall shape of Lord Lorenz striding across the lawn.

“He’s going to see his gardener,” Miri whispers. “The one who isn’t.”

“What do you think he is?” Amir asks. “He seems familiar. Maybe he’s on the list of nobles here and I missed him.”

“Maybe he’s not our kind of noble,” Miri says. “He talks like an imperial, doesn’t he?”

Amir’s grin widens. “Let’s find out, then.”

Miri only just stops herself from clapping her hands. She pulls her riding coat on over her shift and waits impatiently for Amir to put on his boots, which is _ridiculous_ because it’s easier to be quiet on bare feet, anyways. She takes his hand—Even now, old as they are, she doesn’t like walking alone in the dark—and tows him past the room where their father and mother are sleeping, and down, down, down the winding stair.

“I wonder if Dad’s house was like this,” she whispers. “The Alliance one.”

“Mom says it’s in disrepair,” Amir says. “Disrepair means it’s falling apart.”

“I know what disrepair means,” whispers Miri, who didn’t. “But why? It’s like Papa with house Fraldarius. He just left it empty before Aurora started asking about it.”

Amir’s face is shadowed in the darkness of the stairway. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe it’s. Maybe it’s bad, for them. Like how Uncle Sylvain doesn’t go home, either. Or Grandma. Sometimes, maybe home is. Like. Like it’s poisoned.”

“Dad’s good with poison, though.”

“Yeah, but.” Amir shrugs. “I don’t know. Some things are hard, I guess.”

“I wish they weren’t,” Miri says. They step down into the main hall of Gloucester manor, and Miri turns them towards the back door they came in by. At night, all the paintings look dour and grim, the roses prickling with spines. “I wish we could just talk about it.”

Amir grimaces as he reaches for the door. “I. Heard some things, Miri. A few years ago, when I wasn’t supposed to. Daddy was, um. He was having one of his… bad nights, you know? The nightmares. It was when we were in Fhirdiad, remember, and you were trying to get fluent in Fodlan? I, I heard him in the other room, heading out the door, so I. Followed him, and. I think he was talking to her.”

“Who? Aurora?” Miri doesn’t get why Amir is making such a big deal out of this. Lord Lorenz is probably already off with his not-a-gardener by now, and they’re stuck by the door, whispering in the dark.

“No,” Amir says. “The emperor.”

“The dead one?”

Amir nods. “He was talking about us, I think. Laila and Aurora and me and you. Val. He talked a lot about you and Val.”

Miri squints, trying to make out Amir’s face. “What _about_ me?”

“He said you’ve never touched a weapon in your life,” Amir says, in a quiet voice. Miri stiffens. It’s an old wound, too easily reopened. Even Amir is good with knives. Laila’s getting lessons from Grandma herself, and Aurora’s constantly running off to shoot little wooden rings with her bow, but Miri just doesn’t see the point. Who is she going to fight? 

“And why should I?” she asks, hotly.

“It’s not a bad thing, Miri.” Amir sighs. “He said it like he was proud. I think. I think he was crying.”

Miri falls silent. They all know that their father, the Fodlan king who kneels for Dad and throws them around in the snow and tells all the best stories, has bad dreams, sometimes. Miri woke up in the middle of one, once, when she was still in the nursery, and Mama got between her and the door before she and Amir could run through and see what was happening. She’d gathered Miri up in her arms, and Miri saw Daddy hunched in the far corner of the other room, holding Dad like he might fall if he let go.

“He shouldn’t have to,” Miri says, and catches her breath. “Have to cry, like that.”

“I know,” Amir says. “I think he got hurt pretty bad, Miri. When the emperor died. I don’t think it really stops hurting.”

“Then why’d they even have that stupid war?” Miri says. Her voice echoes in the empty hall, and they pause, watching the moonlight pool in patches over the floor.

“I don’t think they wanted to,” Amir says, after a while, when no one comes to find them. “So maybe that’s why he was happy, when he talked about you and Val, and about how I’m, um, _impressionable,_ and Aurora’s good at chess and—“

“He said you’re what?”

“Nothing! It means smart! It means smart,” Amir says. “Like, you’re good at. Making impressions on people. And.”

“That’s so not what it means, Mimi.”

She doesn’t have to see to know Amir is blushing. “Don’t call me that!”

“Don’t _call_ me that!” Miri says.

“Okay. Then I’m not gonna tell you when I find out who the gardener is!” Amir cries, and flings open the back door.

“Well.” Their father stands at the door, arms crossed, bathed in moonlight. “I wondered when you might finally figure out how doors work.”

“Dad!” Amir says. “Uh.” 

“I must be seeing things,” Dad says, unsmiling. “Because _my_ children would be up in bed right now, sleeping like the good little angels they aren’t.”

“About that,” Amir says.

“We _aren’t_ here,” Miri blurts out, and they both stare at her. “We’re... Ghosts! We’re ghosts! Dead before our time, unloved and neglected by our only father—“

“You have three,” their dad says.

“Our only father who is here right now,” Miri says, undaunted. “So we’re doomed to wander the manor forever.”

“Are you.”

Amir groans.

“Honestly, Miri, I’m almost disappointed,” Dad says. “Ghosts? Here? They’d be bored out of their minds. Come up with another one.”

“We just wanted to know who Uncle Lorenz is hiding in the gardener’s house,” Amir says. Dad raises an eyebrow. “We think he’s someone from, um. The empire.”

“He has to be,” Miri says. “He bowed perfectly, just the way a noble is supposed to.”

“And wouldn’t it be important,” Amir says, looking their father right in the eye in a way Miri would never dare, “if a member of the Alliance—uh, former Alliance—was harboring an imperial noble?”

Miri fidgets in the heavy silence, fiddling with the hem of her riding coat. For a moment, she thinks this is it—She and Amir are going to be grounded for life—but then Dad sighs, and Amir’s shoulders sink a little.

“Right,” Dad says. “But if you two want to sneak around and spy on people, you’ll have to do it right. What kind of father am I if I don’t teach my kids subterfuge? So. Let’s go see what Uncle Lorenz is hiding.”

***

It’s not like he’s _trying_ to teach them how to spy on Lorenz specifically, it’s just that he’s trying to impart a lesson. An important one. About...being quiet. And listening. Those are very important things for children to know. Right. 

“The first thing about being sneaky, children, is that you should try and be quiet when you’re doing it,” Claude says, watching as Amir and Miri exchange a glance. He’s also not quite sure he’s ready to deal with what he just heard them talking about, proof positive that they’re actually better at sneaking around and gathering information than he’s pretending they are. 

But he doesn’t think it’s time to bring up the war, or Edelgard, or Dimitri’s nightmares. Dimitri talking about their children to the ghost of a long-dead former classmate and enemy is another matter, but that will have to wait for Claude to have a moment with Dimitri. Even if he’d felt his eyes go hot at Amir’s revelation that Dimitri told the most restless of his ghosts how proud he was that two of his children would never raise a weapon in combat. 

Part of him wants to go back into the room he’s sharing with Marianne, draw her close and tell her all about it. But he shoves all that to be dealt with later and turns a conspiratorial grin on his children. It’s not even a lie, either; Claude loves being a father, and he also loves that his sneaky kids want to go spy on Lorenz just because. It’s definitely gratifying to know they take after him. 

But when they get home, he’s going to find Dimitri and put him on his knees, talk about this tendency to have late-night chats with Edelgard. 

Also, he’s maybe a little interested, himself, in what Lorenz is up to. 

“We were, but Miri --” 

“Do _not_ blame this on --” 

“Shh! Both of you, hush. Watch the master at work.” Claude beckons them out to the sprawling portico off the back of the manor. He sits and slips off his boots, and hides a smile as his children immediately sit down and do the same. 

In the moonlight, it’s impossible to miss how much Amir looks like him -- of all his kids, he’s the one who is most like Claude, physically _and_ mentally -- and how much Miri looks like her birth mother, with Marianne’s sweet smile and heart of gold and spine of steel. He loves them so much. Every scar he carries on his body from the war was worth it, for a world in which Miri can have her balls and her gowns, and Amir his treatises and odd friendship with Lorenz of all people, and never have to spill blood for the things they hold so dear in their hearts. 

“Hey,” Claude says, softly, watching them. “I want you both to know I love you very much, and I like you just how you are, and you make me proud even if I wanted to strangle you both for making me worry today.” 

“Ugh,” Amir says, giving Claude a miniature version of his own affronted scowl. “We know, Dad.” 

Miri plunks her boots next to Amir’s and stands up, brushing her hands down her dress. “Of course we know that. We’re the most adored children anywhere. Grandma and Daddy tell us all the time. Now what, Dad?” 

Shaking his head, Claude puts the past away and leans in close. “We are going to figure out which way Uncle Lorenz went, do you know?” 

“I do, I do!” Miri jumps up and down in the soft grass, ruining the entire point of not having your boots on. “He went to the gardener’s!” 

“You don’t _know_ know that,” Amir says. 

“Um, I’m pretty sure. He looked at him like Dad looks at Papa when Papa is fighting,” Miri says, hands on her hips. “Uncle Lorenz _obviously_ likes roses, they were all _over_ his jacket. So of _course_ he likes Albert.” 

“Albert,” says Claude, his mind racing. He’s well aware his children are smart and he’s made it a point to never underestimate them -- as much as he loves his parents and even his siblings (well, for the most part, Zahir is still an alien creature though he and Aurora have become pals), they always did tend to do that to him. “And you think the fact he bowed like an imperial makes him a former noble? Who do you even know anyone from the former empire?” 

“Aunt Mercedes,” Amir says. 

“Uncle Jeritza,” says Miri. 

Claude has still never quite gotten over, even after all this time, that all five of his children call the _Death Knight_ “uncle.” His only consolation is that Jeritza seems as taken aback by this as Claude. “Uncle Jeritza’s not exactly. Uh. He’s very, um. Different.” 

“That’s because he has a demon in his brain,” Miri says. “That’s what Nyssa says.” 

“There’s no such thing as demons, it’s a _construct_ ,” Amir corrects. “Everybody knows that.” 

Miri gives Amir the same look Marianne gives Hilda sometimes and says, in a voice so like Marianne that Claude has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, “Uncle Jeritza doesn’t.” 

“Kids,” Claude interrupts. “Okay, listen, so, we’re going to the gardener’s house, right?” He can’t imagine that Lorenz is meeting a former imperial noble out there -- who would it even be? Neither Hubert nor Bernadetta survived the war. Linhardt and Caspar gave up their titles when Dimitri won the capital, and Dorothea wasn’t a noble. Ferdinand fell at Myrddin, as far as Claude knows, but that doesn’t really mean a few others hadn’t ventured into former Alliance lands over the years. Not his problem, and Lorenz has proven his loyalty to Dimitri, but Claude’s still curious as to what’s going on. 

“Then let’s go find the gardener’s house,” Claude says. He teaches them to walk on their tiptoes, enjoying the way the cool grass feels on his bare feet, and watches with deep affection as they argue about the best way to get out of a hedge maze. He suggests _fire_ and gets an offended look, but hopefully they’ll remember that if they really _are_ ever stuck in one. Unlikely, but being prepared is always good. 

There’s a light shining through the far window of the gardener’s cottage, which shows signs of recent repair work and a new set of shingles on the roof. Claude shows Amir and Miri how to follow the shadows, keeping out of range of the window, and motions them into sudden stillness at the sound of voices through the wall. Claude cups his hands together, shows his children how it’s done, and sidles closer to the window so he can listen in.

“You can’t hide me forever, you know,” someone says. That must be Albert, the gardener. There’s a clink of a teacup on a saucer—Oh, Lorenz, trust him to resort to tea in every emergency—and the scrape of a chair over tile. “It’s been, gods, twenty years? Surely they’ve all forgotten about me by now.”

Claude carefully uses the shade of a hydrangea bush to glance over the windowsill. Lorenz has his back to the window, wearing just his undershirt and a pair of trousers, and he’s leaning against the kitchen counter while a man with carelessly long red hair puts away the dishes. The man turns to smile wryly at Lorenz, and Claude almost chokes.

“Come, now,” Lorenz says to Ferdinand, one of Edelgard’s trusted soldiers and the former prime minister of the Adrestian empire. “The house of von Aegir isn’t so easily forgotten.”

Beside Claude, Amir and Miri pop up like meerkats, eyes wide.

Ferdinand steps into Lorenz’s reach, smiling as Lorenz’ strokes his cheek. “Flatterer.”

“Of course.” Lorenz kisses him, and Miri covers her mouth with both hands. Claude promptly claps his hands over both Amir and Miri’s eyes and drags them out of view just as Lorenz starts to bend Ferdinand over the kitchen counter.

“We’re going,” Claude whispers.

“Now, take these things off and let me ravish you properly,” Lorenz says. Good _gods_.

Claude has never run quite so fast or so quietly in his life. He pulls Amir and Miri over the quiet, moonlit lawn and into the side entrance of the manor, where he takes them by the shoulders and stares at them for a moment, trying to figure out which life-altering speech he’s supposed to make right now.

“And that,” he says, finally, “is why we don’t spy on people.”

Amir rolls his eyes. 

“I think it was _romantic,_ ” Miri says. “Why do you think he’s hiding? Who’s von Aegir? What does ravish mean?”

“It means sex,” Amir says, blunt as Felix at his best. Miri wrinkles her nose. “I read it in one of Laila’s novels.”

Alright. Claude is definitely going to have to have a talk about what kind of literature Laila is reading, but in the meantime… “Kids. Von Aegir is an old imperial family. If Lorenz and his friend aren’t hurting anyone, and they want to keep that a secret, we should let them. Alright?”

“Right,” Amir says.

“I don’t know if it’s romantic anymore,” Miri says, “but okay.”

Claude sees them up the stairs and to the guest room, but Miri hovers at the door, twisting her hair in her fingers. “Can we.” She glances at Amir. “Can we stay up with you and Mama? I can’t sleep anymore.”

“Mama’s probably asleep,” Claude whispers, but the door to their room creaks open, and Miri beams. Marianne appears, her long hair unpinned and flowing down her back, and gives Claude a look that could very well imply that she’s known they’ve been out of bed this entire time. “Well.”

So Miri and Amir end up making a blanket fort out of Lorenz’s guest furniture while Claude gives up on the hope of actually getting any sleep, and Marianne settles in the middle of the fort like a queen addressing her subjects. Miri sits next to her while Amir flops on his back, skimming through one of the books Lorenz probably keeps around just for decoration.

“Mama,” Miri says. “When you and Mom got together, was it like, you know. Dramatic?”

“Here we go,” Amir mutters. Miri slaps his book, and it falls onto his face. “Hey!”

“Miri,” Marianne warns.

“Sorry, but he’s being a butt.”

“Yeah, well, you’re being a nerd.”

“Says the nerd, _nerd._ ”

Marianne clears her throat before Claude can get up and drag his wild little monsters off to bed after all, and they go silent. “I’d say that your mom and dad had enough drama for everyone,” she says. She winks at Claude. “Their courtship was terribly romantic, in my opinion. But I shan’t say a word if you are going to be rude to one another.”

Miri sits up, hands in her lap. “I won’t be,” she says, all earnest intent. “I’m sorry, Amir. I didn’t mean to call you a nerd.”

“You did, but okay.” Amir catches Claude’s stern look and sighs. “I mean, I’m sorry, too.”

Miri bounces in her seat, turning towards Marianne, and gives her the biggest, most pleading gaze since she suddenly, fervently, desperately wanted a horse at the age of eight. “Mother, please?”

Marianne smiles and smooths out her dress. “Very well,” she says. “Since you’re so determined to be good. Let me tell you all about how Hilda Valentine Goneril discovered the true name of the irrepressible rogue known as Claude von Riegan.”


End file.
